A Matter of Will
by Laerthel
Summary: First Age, Himring. In the middle of the night, little Elrond is coming to the dreadful realisation that something evil is lurking under his bed. Meanwhile, Maedhros has to send soldiers to deal with the Orc horde ravaging Himlad's fields, only to find a far more terrible and dangerous beast within his walls... or within himself? (Silmarillion-based.)
1. Chapter 1: The Orc

**Author's notes**

The following story is a part of my account on Elros's and Elrond's first times in the Himring, fostered by Maedhros and Maglor but instead of following a strict cronology and separable threads it turned out to be an illogical bunch of wild symbolism and a rudimental study on the shades of Maedhros's personality.

**On names:** the use of _Russandol,_ the epesse of Maedhros may seem deeply indiscreet but in my opinion it was likely that the twins grew up speaking Sindarin, which, in those times, could be more strongly influenced by Quenya; and if this was indeed the case, 'Russandol' – given its meaning, _'copper-top'_ – was something that was easy for them to remember. _(Even if we include the fact that the Sindarin people spoke near the Mouth of Sirion was much different from the Sindarin of Doriath or that of the eastern lands of Beleriand)._ There is no word of this in the story but I believe Makalaurë would have suggested the use of the epessë use to make 'Russandol' a bit less fearful in the twins' eyes.

**Quenya names and the translations of Elvish phrases can be found at the end.**

**All published chapters are parts of the CORRECTED VERSION of this story, thanks to kim-onka and Nosmaeth!**

* * *

**The Orc**

A wave of shiver shook little Elrond's bones as he tightened around himself the blanket he stole, wishing for a hot bath and his mother's kiss. But that old, moth-eaten piece of wool was everything he had.

The castle was so cold he could almost feel the blood freezing in his veins. Makalaurë had set some logs afire in the hearth of the small room he shared with his twin, but Elros was not there; they could not sleep together that night. They were punished for having tried to escape through the backdoor, eventually caught by Russandol, who – as usual – was not in the brightest of his moods.

_They had never heard Russandol yell this loudly. They had never hated Russandol this badly._

And then Elrond was left alone in the dark, afraid and cold, with an Orc under his bed.

The Orc had a certain cunning, it could hide well, but Elrond, with all the confidence and precaution of a child, was convinced of its presence. Obviously, at the beginning he tried not to reveal that he knew about his unpleasant visitor but the Orc was there all the same, making those terrible creaking noises in the middle of the night and Elrond was deadly afraid of it. Apparently, the Orc was as hungry as he, and it wanted to eat him.

And the castle walls were cold, and Elros was nowhere.

.x.

He made his way along the eerie aisle, where silvery moonlight glimmered on some faded tapestries which covered the walls. Dawn was still far, the moon a fat crescent, inclining to halfness. Elrond had to act quickly, for the Orc seemed to grow hungrier than ever.

Elros had to be with Makalaurë, on the top of that scary tower Elrond hated the most. To reach his brother, first he had to climb those large, ice-cold marble stairs, turn left, then left again to avoid the guards, jump through that breach in the wall where no one could follow him, not even the Orc, then climb more stairs, and more and more and more... and then slip inside the room, silent as a shade, trying not to wake Makalaurë.

Elrond thought it could be done.

.x.

He'd already climbed half the stairs and reached their flight when a door sprang open and orange torchlight filled the corridor. Elrond skulked to the wall with his back and closed his eyes, waiting for the doom to strike him... but slowly, the light moved further and he heard long smooth steps, then a determined voice.

"How many of them?"

_Russandol. It was Russandol._

"A hundred or more, my lord. They will reach the river before dawn."

"Send word to the mountains. There could be more coming."

"Our scouts are aware of them, my lord. They beg permission to hunt them down."

"They are...?"

"Four-and-forty, my lord."

"Send a dozen riders after them. It has to be enough."

"As you wish."

"And close the gates immediately when you leave!"

"We always do, my lord - "

"_Immediately_ is not a minute later, and not three seconds later. Immediately is a heartbeat later at most. Understood?"

"Understood, my lord," came the guard's voice from the room, almost as terrified as poor little Elrond quivering in a dark corner. He wanted to cry but he didn't dare.

_Why is Russandol so evil? Why does he hate everyone? What wrong have we ever done to him?_

_And what is lurking out there? A hundred of what...?_

_Whatever it is, it can't be worse than Russandol._

Elrond gave a start, weighing the opportunity of silently walking back to his room and letting the Orc eat him rather than to risk being discovered, but he had no chance.

The guard left the room in haste and ran down the stairs without even noticing him, and Russandol even closed the door... but the latch never clicked. There remained a thin orange line of light between the frame and the door, and just when Elrond thought he could safely leave the dark corner and sneak past the door, he was horrified to see Russandol's eye peeking through the gap. The door sprang open, light filled the aisle again and Elrond was standing there, shaking from head to toes before Russandol's giant figure. The tall Elf seemed scarier than ever in the dim light of the torches.

"Look who's there! Plotting another escape, aren't you? Without the other little fool, this time! Are you so desperate?"

Russandol wasn't yelling now. His voice was soft but deadly cool, honeyed with mockery which just made him sound even more evil.

"I wasn't planning an escape," Elrond said, his voice trembling. "I was just searching for Elros."

There was no use of lying. Russandol would have known.

"How moving! Still... are you trying to tell me that you're not old enough to survive a night without your precious brother? You are lying, little one! You want to flee. You want to go home, but you have no home now. You would even kill me if you dared. If you could."

"_No, I would not!"_ Elrond screamed it to Russandol's face, tears in his eyes. _"I'm not as bad as you! I just want to kill the Orc!"_

That was the first time ever he saw Russandol looking confused, even disturbed.

"What Orc?"

"There is an Orc under my bed," Elrond was sobbing now. "It wants to eat me!"

Russandol rolled his eyes.

"Enough of this stupid whimpering! No Orc can enter our castle. Your brother is alive - we haven't eaten him yet if that brings you relief. And if you close your little mouth and don't try to escape again we won't eat you, either."

That was almost reassuring, but somehow Elrond's tears were disinclined to stop falling. He could not even remember why he was crying, what was hurting him so badly but it still hurt and his tears were still washing down his face. And Russandol was just standing there with that uncertain expression on his face that Elrond could not see properly through his tears, probably that's why it reminded him to unsettlement, even fear.

"Don't cry -," Russandol finally managed but it did no good, because Elrond was afraid of opposing him and yet he couldn't stop sobbing.

"_For the stars of Varda, just stop this childish folly!"_ Russandol yelled at him some moments later but – of course – it did no good, either.

And then Russandol knelt in front of him (but he was still much taller).

"So there's an Orc under your bed," he stated solemnly, looking deep in little Elrond's eyes.

This was so unexpected that his eyes widened and the tears stopped.

_Russandol believed him!_

"What does the Orc do?"

"It makes... sounds," Elrond said, still in a shaky voice.

"What sounds? Does it talk to you?"

"No, it just... creaks."

"Creaks. I see."

Russandol rose to his feet, then slid into the room and came back with a longsword, about the size of Elrond.

"I shall go and kill that Orc," he said coolly. "But then stop snivelling and let me get some sleep."

The blade left its scabbard and Elrond gave a start when he heard the sound of steel.

.x.

Russandol approached the room with smooth, silent steps, but they were so long Elrond had to run as he followed them – which made noise. Too much noise. The Orc knew without doubt that they were coming... but Elrond was no longer afraid.

_Russandol will surely kill that beast, _he thought. _Russandol could kill anyone if he wanted, if he really wanted._

And then they arrived.

The door was half open as little Elrond left it, the logs had turned to ash in the hearth and all the warmth was gone from the room. Elrond's bed was empty, the blankets thrown at its end as he'd left them. His clothes hung untouched on a chair, the moth-eaten curtain was also at its place. Nothing moved.

"I emphatically counsel for any Orc who dwells in this room to show up immediately, so they may gain a swift and painless death," Russandol declared in a ringing tone. Elrond could hear scornful amusement in his voice.

The room remained silent. No one answered.

"You are hearing my second and last warning," Russandol said. "The next one will be a blow through your throat, dear Orc."

Dead silence.

"It is in here," Elrond heard himself saying. "It's just hiding. It is afraid of you! I'm not lying, please, believe me!"

He was sobbing again. What if they'll just stand and watch and the Orc fails to show itself? Russandol would think he'd lied, and all his wrath would turn against him. That was more than he could bear.

Russandol looked at him, wondering. Then he walked to the bed and kicked it with all his strength.

A handful of mortar fell from the walls, covering Elrond's pillow with a dusty white blanket – and there came the creaking sound, louder and more terrible than ever! Elrond wanted to flee but something made him stop and look back, trembling and terrified as he was.

Russandol tossed the bed aside with a quick flick of his arm – even with one hand, he was so _horribly_ strong! - and the Orc ran to the middle of the room, probably as horrified as Elrond himself.

Only, it wasn't an Orc, just a huge, black rat. Robbed of its shelter, the creature sticked to the floor, trembling all over – same as Elrond who was now looking to its small, coal-black eyes.

Russandol glanced at the longsword but suddenly changed his mind; he wrenched the balcony door open and kicked towards the rat which let out a squeak and ran out to the wilderness.

.x.

Elrond stood there for a long time, his heart filled with shame instead of relief. Russandol sat on his bed, his eyes never leaving the child's face.

_Why was Russandol looking at him with that strange light in his eyes? Was he angry now? Was he planning to hurt him? Was he about to yell at him again and chase him back to bed?_

Another shining tear washed down his cheek.

"What a whimpering little fool you are!" Russandol groaned. "What on Arda is the matter now? We finished that terrible Orc. It's gone. No one is going to eat you and your brother is safe. I have no more time to hear you squirking like a mouse! What the hell are you afraid of, truly?!"

_There is some strange courage in saying out loud what we are afraid of._

"You," Elrond eyed Russandol through his tears. "You are always so angry with me! And Elros! You hate us, and now you will hate me even more because the Orc was not real!"

"No one is going to hate you," Russandol said after a long, sullen silence. "Do you hear me, child? Stop crying. Raise your head and get yourself some dignity."

"What is a dignity?" Elrond had to ask. "Is it a weapon?"

Russandol laughed silently.

(How can someone laugh without even a sparkle of happiness in their voice?)

"A weapon, aye. A shining sword. Have it sharpened so you can shove it amongst my ribs one day."

Elrond didn't understand that.

Russandol helped the little boy to bed and tightened the blanket around his legs. He did it a lot clumsier than Mother, probably because he had only one hand. Still, he seemed a little less evil now. He set the logs on fire in the hearth, and warmth started to creep towards Elrond's feet. Russandol glanced at the small flames, then shook his head and unlaced his furcloak (it was made of a giant bear he slew, Elrond had heard the guards saying).

To the boy, it seemed like a sea of fur which embraced him warmly as Russandol bespread it on the top of his blankets. He even removed a strand of black hair from his eyes and placed it behind his ear.

Little Elrond didn't understand that, either. Was Russandol planning to behead him now?

But somehow, he didn't. He must have changed his mind.

_But why did he act so different now than usual? Why did he sit on his bedside for a moment before he left, watching the dance of the flames in the hearth, and why didn't he lock the door?_

_And why did he leave his warm cloak on him?_

.x.

.x.

"Elros, look! I can fly!"

Little Elrond was standing on top of the bastion-wall arms outspread, his tunic flapping in the cool wind as Makalaurë had strictly forbade them. Elros tightened his arms around his twin's chest, trying to pull him back, but they were both fascinated by the wide, unknown lands they could see opening out to the green-gray horizon. The wind was playing with their hair.

"That is wonderful, seldo1, but it is just as easy to fly downwards and break your neck," came Makalaurë's calm voice from the background as he lifted up the two of them before they could resist, stashing them carefully behind the epaulement.

"But I want to see them coming! Please!" Elrond begged.

"To see who coming?"

"The scouts! They fought a hundred of something and I'm sure they will soon arrive!"

"A hundred of something?" Elros raised his brows.

"Orcs, that would be," Makalaurë said in that calm, elegant tone of his. "Those filthy beasts ravage everything these days, but our lances and bows are stronger. We can defeat them."

As if to justify his words, a sound of a horn came echoing from Himlad's fields and fifty-some riders emerged from the endless sea of grass. The scouts were coming.

.x.

Little Elrond didn't understand what happened next.

The gates were opened, the guards shouted down from the walls to greet their friends, the flags of the house of Fëanor were flapping proudly in the wind, as ever. The bright red forelock of Russandol appeared in front of the newcomers and the leader of the scouts was commanded to present his reports. But then four riders carried _something_ through the gate. Whatever it was, it required carrying, though it seemed to be alive, even conscious. The twins couldn't see the creature's face and the guards disappeared with it quickly behind the castle walls.

And then Russandol came up to seek his brother, in the deadliest of his fury.

"Come, Otorno2," he breathed, unable even to say Makalaurë's name. "Come with me."

Makalaurë froze. "Is it..."

"No," Russandol said in a shaky voice. "Not anymore."

His madly angered glance suddenly turned towards the twins.

"You stay here," he said in a low, menacing voice that made the blood freeze in their veins. "Understood?"

"Understood," Elrond and Elros whispered.

No one locked the door; because who could withstand Russandol's fury?

.x.

After minutes, or maybe even hours of sullen silence, Elros walked to the door and peeked out to the empty stairs.

"We have to stay here," Elrond reminded him, but he sounded uncertain. He would have followed Elros if he'd gone forth...

Hunger and cold had its effects. They left the room and sneaked slowly past the stairs. Nothing moved, even the guards were away.

"What was that thing the guards carried past the gate?" Elros suddenly asked. "Did you see it? It had red eyes."

"I did not see it," Elrond swallowed, "but it was definitely a Something."

"A what?"

"A Something, Elros!" Elrond whispered to his twin's ear. "I heard Russandol at night, when he was talking to a guard. He sent his riders out to war but he never mentioned who the enemy was. It must have been a whole army of these Somethings! Maybe they captured their leader, who is here now. Maybe Russandol wants to question him, so that's why the scouts left him alive."

"These Somethings must be terrible, than," Elros whispered back. "Even Russandol was afraid of that creature, did you see?"

"No, he wasn't!" Elrond snapped. "Russandol is too brave to be afraid!"

"Why would you say such of him?" his brother frowned. "Russandol is evil!"

"Yes, he is. But he is also brave!"

They were at this point of their argument when they heard the footsteps. Swiftly, they hid in a cobwebbed corner but the steps came from the other side of the wall. It must have been a guard who strode back and forth along the corridor.

Looking around, Elrond realised that they were lost. Neither of them had ever seen this part of the castle – it was dim, torch-lit and even eerier than the others. They've almost decided to turn back and try to found their way to the tower where they were left, but Elros suddenly caught his twin's arm.

"Elrond, look!"

They were standing in front of a thick iron door which was half-open... and through the gap, they could see the Something, in all its horror.

The creature was tall as an Elf, pale as a corpse and ragged as an Orc. Its face had once been beautiful but its skin was a greyish brown now, slowly turning to black; one of its eyes shone pale red, the other was missing, its lips were thin and withered, its teeth sharp and most of its hair had fallen out. It was bounded to a chair with Makalaurë and Russandol towering above him. Russandol was clutching his longsword, Makalaurë his harp; and they were arguing.

"You cannot kill him, Maitimo!" Makalaurë whispered in despair. "Spare his life, he is our friend! He is Antalossë3!"

"He was," Russandol said coolly. "He isn't now. Would you call _Antalossë_ all the corpses we'll still have to bury through our endless years? Our friend is worse than dead. A thrall of the Enemy. A walking corpse. Let him die, and find peace in the Halls of Mandos!"

"He might still recover!"

Russandol fleered, his rusty voice dancing on the edge of madness.

"Recover, you say. _Recover!_ Look at him, Brother - he's already half an Orc. He can't talk, he doesn't understand our speech. Let him die!"

"Maybe he is just shocked! Maitimo, please -"

Makalaurë was squelched by a low, terrifying roar that seemed to gush out from the Something's throat. Elros reached for his twin's shoulder to jerk him back from the gap, but it was too late – the Something saw Elrond. Apparently, it was hungrier then the two of them together; it froze for a moment but then it began to stretch the rope around its torso, so violently it began to crush.

Elrond's heart was beating like a drum; clanging together with Elros, he could feel that his twin was just as frightened. He caught his breath and gave a start as if trying to run away, but at this very moment the rope gave way and the Something jumped forward, rattling like some savage beast.

Elrond's horrified scream was swiftly muffled by a headlong shove of Russandol's right arm that sent him flying to the wall. The tall Elf grabbed the Something by its neck, shook the creature violently, crashed it to the wall and began to throttle him – for with one hand, he couldn't reach his sword.

"Maitimo!" Makalaurë cried but the redhead paid no mind. His grip only loosened on the Something's neck when the feverish light flickered out in its eyes and its jaw dropped.

"Russandol!" Elrond heard himself shouting. Tears were washing down his face. Elros was sobbing silently.

"It's over," Russandol mumbled in his throaty voice. "Probably for the best. It was to be done."

"Still, I feel more like a kinslayer than ever," he added a moment later, studying the haggard face of the creature that once was called Antalossë. "Morgoth's decay starts deep within; and whether his havoc looks uglier on the inside or the outside, no one could tell."

"_Maitimo!"_ Makalaurë called out again, on the edge of tears.

The taller Elf lifted up his gaze as if caught out.

"Makalaurë," he said coolly. "Have this dirt cleaned up, if you would."

And thus he turned to face the twins.

"_You!"_ Russandol's mere gaze could have congealed river Celon that ribboned over his wide lands. "_I commanded you to stay in the tower! And I did it for a reason, dimwits!"_

"We were afraid," Elros began to weep.

"_I commanded it!"_

"Maitimo, stop yelling!" Makalaurë raised his arms and stood between his brother and the shivering children. "They're frightened to death!"

"They're lucky to be frightened! Lucky even to be alive!" Russandol snapped.

"Look at me, little ones!" Makalaurë knelt in front of the twins. "Russandol and I want to protect you. Do as you are told, and no harm will ever come to you in this castle. And now let's go and eat something. Don't let the shadows of evil trouble you."

And he reached for their hands.

.x.

.x.

Russandol was not present at the dinner, nor did Elrond see him in the next three days. But the morning after he woke to the sound of warhorns; and when he and his twin stumbled down the stairs to learn what happened, they walked past Makalaurë. He looked care-laden but smiled wanly at the sight of the children, and told them Russandol had rode out to chase the Orcs in the mountains. Elrond felt relieved – the thought of being captured in Himring seemed less scary without the rigour of Russandol. And still, his absence left him curious and his mind filled with questions while they occupied their chairs around the breakfast table.

"Makalaurë," he suddenly blurted out. "What was that... that _something_ Russandol killed?"

Makalaurë froze for a second, his hand stopping right above a slice of bread. He glanced up to meet Elrond's eyes, and when he saw that the twins were watching him with equal interest, he sighed.

"That – that was a thrall of Morgoth," he said slowly. "That's what the enemy does to the unlucky ones whom he captures alive. The creature that almost killed you was an Elf once; tall and dark-haired as I. Even our eyes were similar, now that I recall. His name had been Antalossë; and Maitimo... Russandol loved him dearly. He valued him over other soldiers, for his wits were very quick. Antalossë was one of his most faithful servants, but I think he never really liked to be here - we're settled too far north and he ever missed hunting in the woods. So Russandol sent him to our cousin Findekáno as a sergeant. But after... after a long time, he came back and served us faithfully until his capturing. By the time our scouts carried him back, it was too late, as you saw. Russandol was right, we could not have saved him."

Elrond froze. There was a long, sullen silence.

"You mean that thing... that was an Elf?" Elros asked in a shaky voice.

"No. Not anymore."

"So that means...," Elrond whispered in horror, following the thread of his twin, "It means that every Orc..."

"No! Not every one of them."

"But some..."

"Some, yes."

Makalaurë sighed in despair when he looked at the horrified faces of the twins, pale as ashes.

"I should not have told you..."

They should not have asked, maybe, but Elrond was restless. Trembling and terrified as he was, he couldn't think of anything else. He scarcely ate a bite, musing on Russandol who killed his friend without hesitation when he became an Orc.

_Would he kill Makalaurë, too?_

_And how does one become an Orc? During torment? Without sunshine and bread and water? By an evil spell, before the burning eyes of the Enemy?_

_Or is Russandol so wild and evil because he's half an Orc himself? And if he is, why did he save his life?_

* * *

**Quenya names:**

Makalaurë = Maglor

Maitimo = Russandol = Maedhros

Findekáno = Fingon

**Phrases:**

1: _seldo_ means "boy"

2: _Otorno_ is not the usual quenya equivalent of "brother" (originally, it would be "toron"). "Otorno" adds to the meaning "sworn brother" or "associate" which sounds kind of informative when it comes to the sons of Fëanor...

3: _Antalossë_ is a name with a word-combination I formed myself; its meaning would be "Snow-face", appealing to his rather lurid skin (while the poor thing was still an Elf, at least). He is an own character, though not developed.

**Base from The Silmarillion:**

_"But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet it is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest of foes."_


	2. Chapter 2: The Thrall

**The Thrall**

"My lord," the captain of his scouts rose to greet him with a courteous bow and Nelyafinwë frowned at the gesture. There was no need to bow in front of him, he was taller anyway...

"My lord," the captain repeated slowly, sadly, but seemingly uneasy. Nelyafinwë supposed he was trying to gain time with his politeness which made him furious. "I'm afraid the news I bring won't be to your liking. I must confess..."

"Overstep your personal standpoint, if you would, and focus on the statement of facts," Nelyafinwë interrupted coolly.

_Orcs under the bed, crying children, helplessly mumbling soldiers and wakefulness. Valar, why punish me again?_

"As you wish, my lord. I-"

"I wish nothing. I command."

Nelyafinwë's voice grew even colder and the captain flinched but finally, he managed to gather his confidence.

"We brought your friend back," he stated solemnly.

"Antalossë?" Nelyafinwë's voice was unconcerned.

"As you say, my lord. You won't like what the Enemy did to him."

"None of us can change what is already done," Nelyafinwë said, his tone indifferent, though his legs suddenly felt numb and he had to make an effort to move. "Let us hope he may recover."

The captain nodded briefly, swallowing his _personal standpoint._ Nelyafinwë started to wonder if it had been a bad idea to interrupt his speech but at this point, he was ashamed to ask. At least, he might have been ashamed if not for that crippling ice-sheet that seemed to spread in his chest, getting closer and closer to his heart. He could hardly feel anything else now than the paralysing sensation of cold.

_We should heat this damned castle thoroughly, especially with those children here, _he thought, even if he knew nothing would melt the ice on his heart. Not now.

"There is another thing, my lord," he heard the captain's voice.

"And what would that be?"

"We chased the scouts of Morgoth for a long time and encountered four watchmen of our borders," the captain said frankly, as he was commanded to talk, though Nelyafinwë heard his voice quivering here for a moment. "They were heading to your castle to demand your help. They are running out of provisions and they're becoming helpless, for their chief captain Tyelcano must have been captured or killed... he's been missing for a month now."

Nelyafinwë leaned to grab hold of his desk with a hand that was no longer there, and the captain had to catch his shoulder to prevent him from falling. He pushed his lord back to the chair and let him go immediately; Nelyafinwë would always get mad if someone, _anyone _tried to help him those rare times when his maimed hand disadvanced him. The captain had heard him many times yelling even at Makalaurë who said nothing, who never said anything, who just watched him with those sad grey eyes of his.

The captain must have expected a fervent bang of his fist on the table, a headlong shove or a curse, anything... but Nelyafinwë just straightened his back and eyed him sharply, eagerly as if nothing happened. His defiant glance felt hot and tantalizing.

"How comes that no one took the trouble to inform me about this for _one whole month,_ Captain?" his tone was low now, menacingly low. "If this is what I keep feeding my messengers for, you are free to dismiss them in this very hour."

"They set out to find the Lord Tyelcano, my lord - "

"So they set out – abandoning the watch?"

The captain's situation was getting miserable.

"My lord - " he finally managed. "They were disadvantaged by every possible circumstance. They all felt ashamed and they decided to mend matters before reporting to you, but..."

"Magnificent," Nelyafinwë's fist now truly banged on the table. "I am losing the trust of my own soldiers! Why do they seek my help, anyway?"

"They cannot hope to survive winter this way, my lord."

Nelyafinwë took a deep breath, regaining his self-control.

"I may speak with them later. Send them everything they need. Food, arms, horses, blanketing – and a dozen riders. I can't dispense with more." His voice was calm, emotionless. "I am done with you for today. Go and get some rest."

The captain bowed and left Nelyafinwë alone with his well-kept horror.

.x.

Antalossë as a thrall... the thought hurt him badly, it dug a hole in his chest where his heart had been - but losing Tyelcano was too much. Hearing his name again after so many years brought back all his memories of old times, of better times, and to his shame, he had to admit that it was not Tyelcano he grieved for, but rather himself.

Tyelcano had been tall, taller than Father, and he'd also been strong and wise.

_Wiser than Father,_ Nelyafinwë mused. _He should have listened to him, but he never did; yet Tyelcano had admired him all the same._

In spite of his young age, the wise Elf was fit for the rule of the First Counsellor in Tirion – Nelyafinwë could remember him vaguely from his childhood, standing youthful and lanky next to Grandfather (still just a sergeant, that time) or walking slowly beside Father as they were circling the walls of Formenos. And he could also half-imagine, half-remember Tyelcano kneeling next to his bed after he was rescued (and still half unconscious), as he pledged his sword to him. The counsellor had always believed in him, and Nelyafinwë had always felt worthless of his trust.

Tyelcano was there when he first grabbed a quill with his clumsy left hand and tried to write. Tyelcano was the one who agreed when he refused the heritage of his father: crown, titles, power and all. Tyelcano was the one who sticked to him no matter what, who helped him out from all the dangers of intrigue that might have costed him his lordship. But after a time, Nelyafinwë decided that his brother Curufin was in sore need of Tyelcano's wits so he sent the counsellor to hold him in check.

_It was my most grievous mistake to dismiss him to the borders after... after such a long time,_ Nelyafinwë mused.

_After such a long time, _the mocking thought echoed in his mind. _Are you afraid, well shaped-one? You wretched mockery of a Noldo! You withered remnant of your father's glory and pride! You miserable thrall of Morgoth! You are afraid to say it out loud, though it is always on your mind. Night and day. Years ago._

_A long time ago... but what's the point of speaking about mistakes, even grievous ones? What suicidal error, what fatal tragedy could earn the name of MISTAKE in your eyes, after "such a long time" or "years" or however you refer to THE NIRNAETH!_

He gasped, desperate to fight back all those unnumbered tears. He couldn't cry now. He just _couldn't._ Walls had ears in the Himring, and too many of them...

Yes, he made another grievous mistake. He should have held Tyelcano close, but he didn't want to hear the counsellor opposing him when he attacked Doriath with his brothers... now that he recalled, he hasn't heard anything about the Elf ever since. Was he captured so long ago...? The captain might have lied to him about this... _but if he did, Tyelcano must be entirely an Orc by now!_

There, he almost cried. He would have cried like a child, had he been no one else but Nelyafinwë. But he was also the Lord of the Himring, the Warden of the East, a Kinslayer and Head of the House of Fëanáro, so he gathered himself and swallowed his _personal standpoint,_ as he called it.

.x.

Nelyafinwë knew exactly how to transform an Elf into an Orc. He'd seen the process many times – if he'd entrenched himself in Morgoth's dark arts for a short while, he could have even created new Orcs himself. Countless times he had to watch - watch as the smooth snow-white skin was soiled, watch as the teeth fell out or became sharp and pointed, watch as the eyes bled until they glimmered red and grew to loathe any kind of light, watch as tall, lithe, muscular bodies were grotesquely deformed, tormented and mutilated, watch as red flesh turned to black, watch as wits and souls were maimed, watch as withered, broken, miserable creatures forgot their pride, their dignity, even the very nature of their race and grew to fear death – to fear it madly, impossibly, boundlessly.

Future Orcs fought for death first. No one wanted to be dishonored, stripped and mutilated during endless torment. No one wanted to yield slowly, no one wanted to drop under the burden. They wanted to be killed and they did everything to gain their ends – all in vain.

_"Let them! Let them! Never fight!"_ Nelyafinwë had screamed into the night, but no one heard him. He was hanging from a cliff, after all. All he saw was a vision of things that happened down in the smelters of Morgoth, but the vision was clear and true. _It had to be true._

Why did they fight, the foolish ones?! It was not the endless torment that broke them. It was not the loss of blood, the ravage of flesh, not even the fact that they were blemished, disfigured, shamed, maimed. They chased themselves to despair, to absolute madness. They lost their wits. They lost their mind and their will. They surrendered before the evil of Morgoth, for they never truly believed they had a choice – and thus they lost it.

Sometimes, Nelyafinwë had wanted to be an Orc. The thought of violence, of endless physical torment could have cleared his mind. He almost longed for it. It would have been a relief if his body ached (more, yes, even more). The wind always howled on that cliff and Nelyafinwë was cold. He coughed and he spit blood, so something must have been amiss with his lungs by then.

_Down there in the smelters the air must be warm at least,_ Nelyafinwë had thought many times as he closed his eyes in despair. But he could never get down there – that was no part of his torment.

Sometimes, he'd lost himself in colorful delirations, and he'd imagined he was being transformed into an Orc. He never fought in these dreams – he let his tormentors ravage him and never said a word, never cried, never cursed. Never even moved. They stopped various times to check if he was still alive, and Nelyafinwë opened his eyes to help them decide. Nothing more.

_Oh how he'd wished to become an Orc! _No matter what would they do with his body, his fëa could fly free. His mind, his soul, his very essence stayed always clear. Sometimes he could even laugh at the ignorance of his visionary tormentors.

_You uglify me, you hurt me, you cut me and you're foolish enough to think that you can also cow me. I am a Son of Fëanáro! I am a Prince of the Noldor, dimwits! Go and hurt me, make my body an Orc – and I shall make you trust me, you will name me your chief captain and I will burn your castle, kill your soldiers and free your thralls! I will avenge my father, my brothers, the ships and Findekáno, even the face I lost. I will get my heritage back. And then? I will laugh into your face, kill my dishonored hröa and find peace in the Halls of Mandos. So go and hurt me, lackwits!_

The only error in Nelyafinwë's glorious plans was that the Enemy must have known what he was thinking, and seemingly, he had not the mind to find out if the Prince of the Noldor could withsave himself during such torments. He went on ravaging his fëa instead.

_But Antaloss__ë__,_ Nelyafinwë thought, his mind flying back to the present, _my dear friend, are you strong enough? Are you just ugly or have you lost yourself? Did they just dishonor you or did they rob you of your wits?_

The answer was terrible.

.x.

.x.

.x.

While the dinner was served, Nelyafinwë stealed on, back to the cell where his throttled friend laid still. He sat beside the corpse and studied it with interest. The smell of decay transpierced the room massively as if Antalossë was at least a fortnight dead. His eyes were red and glassy, and his ravaged face had turned into a disturbing shade of purple.

_He was weak, _Nelyafinwë realized. _He surrendered. He should have died sooner instead of being brought back to our horror! He almost killed those little ones._

But why did he care, anyway? The twins were just another burden he had to carry. He could have seen the last of them! Everyone would have thought it was an accident... and he would have never had to stay awake again to pluck imaginary Orcs from under beds! He should have let this wretched creature kill them.

He gasped, as if woken from a dream.

_What was I thinking?_

He, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro just wished – and wished with passion, with fervency, he wished it from the hole where his heart had been – he wished he'd let a thrall of Morgoth kill (and, probably, eat) two innocent children. Said innocent children were captured by him, Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro who'd chased their mother into very likely death, just to get back a jewel that was stolen from him – by someone else.

_You dare not to kill them,_ he mocked himself. _You want someone else to do the dirty work, don't you?_

"What am I thinking!" he cried aloud, and suddenly all those unnumbered tears spouted from the depths of his fëa and they were flowing, flowing, flowing like a river. They covered his face in salt and water, only to make him remember the burning ships of Losgar.

The shores had been salty, the sails clad in fire. His father was laughing, and Tyelcano, ever-witty, ever-practical Tyelcano made sure if their package avoided the flames. And he, Nelyafinwë (those times, his father would have killed anyone who'd dared to call him simply _Russandol_) just stood there, watching the flames, thinking about his cousin Findekáno at the other side of the water.

_"What am I thinking?" _he repeated hysterically as repressed sobs mingled with the tireless stream of his tears. Thinking of Findekáno did no good; it just reminded him of the last time he ever saw him.

Everyone remembered Findekáno as a proud and reckless warrior, tall, strong and graceful in his shining helm; and the soldiers boomed in soul-stirring ovation whenever they caught a glimpse of him. Everyone loved Findekáno - but just the chosen, lucky ones could fully understand his speech, Nelyafinwë recalled, for he spoke as swiftly, as passionately as he lived. It was hard for him to restrain himself while speaking in front of people (though once he did, he succeeded splendidly), since words seemed to sprang to his lips from nowhere – thoughts of perfect shape and magnificent, fascinating ardour. Findekáno was the hero of his people, the hero they loved, the hero they could follow. Findekáno was a hero even to Nelyafinwë, though he'd never told him this.

Some soldiers must have caught a last flawless glimpse of Findekáno riding forth to face the Balrog, but no one saw him dead since his guards were massacred, his army destroyed and his allies had fled. No one saw the Hero killed and burned and withered, beaten down to the ground with half his head missing - no one but Nelyafinwë.

He had but vague memories of his aimless rush into the wilderness after the Nirnaeth – he rode hard while his horse still drew breath and killed it as soon as it foundered, exhausted. He'd been so hungry he ate his faithful white stallion (he thought, even in desperate need of food, that it was murder. The horse never even dreamt that his master would hurt him, it was much too easy to dirk the poor beast).

_I killed an animal that trusted me, _this was all that Nelyafinwë could remember from his lone wanderings. His brothers had rode with him at the beginning but his horse was the fastest, ever the fastest, it rushed past all of them and got lost in the wilderness. Russandol, Maedhros, Nelyafinwë, Maitimo, the Kinslayer, the Prince of the Noldor, the Warden of the East – all of them were lost.

Later, Nelyafinwë returned to the battlefield to search his loved ones. The sight haunted him until the very end of his days.

Utter stillness reigned on that field. The sky was grey, the clouds running in haste as Nelyafinwë approached the bald earth, still coated with sodden blood as if the very heart of Arda was bleeding, dying in slow agony from its festered wounds. It was a hideous sight – nearly as hideous as the great dark heap that rose on the horizon. Approaching, Nelyafinwë could see that it was raised of dead bodies... the bodies of his friends.

He passed around it, looking for familiar faces, but they all seemed the same. The foul, intent smell of decay made his head pound. He even considered laying down beside them and staying there until death but suddenly, he glimpsed the blades of grass. They grew here and there, rising vividly in front of the gray horizon, peeping out from the orbits of a broken skull, the remnants of a withered arm or even a mouth gaping in an eternal yawn.

_Life within death, _Nelyafinwë thought as he finally saw his cousin's shattered body through his tears. He would have walked past him if not for his shining armour. The corpse was unrecognizable, even though the crows did not have the courage to tear its flesh any further. Nelyafinwë searched for his cousin's hand – two fingers were missing, another one gave way to his touch -, he gave it a clumsy squeeze, lowered his head and sank into deep mourning.

.x.

.x.

"Findekáno," Nelyafinwë whispered when dawn broke again (for the second time or the third?), but he never answered.

It has all been a dream, a bad-bad dream. Losgar was over, Nirnaeth was over. Father was dead, his cousin was dead, his brothers were dead, save gentle Makalaurë. Antalossë was rotting in the earth now, but the memory of his scent still made his head pound.

_And I was complaining of Orcs under beds! How about the Orcs in my head...?_

_How about the Orc you are, foully-shaped one?,_ his mocking side added.

Nelyafinwë gave a start. He rose from the chair he slept in and raced along his castle, rushed into his (nearly unused) bedroom, then shut the door and sank onto his bed.

_Was he an Orc, after all?_

All decisions he'd made so far have proved fatal, and they mostly ended with a tragedy. He chased his people to death, to captivity, to torment, to danger, to obscurity. He couldn't guard them, he couldn't save them, no matter how hard he tried. And he could never surprise the Enemy... somehow, Morgoth always learned his plans and balked them...

"He has eyes and ears everywhere, Maitimo," he remembered Findekáno saying. "He's worse than all the talemonger ladies I've ever met! Small wonder he finds out everything - maybe we could get our women into service."

But Findekáno could not content himself with joking; he'd sent his spies out in every possible direction but found no informer of Angband between their lines. And yet, the Enemy still knew where Nelyafinwë's strength was gathered.

This happened long before the Nirnaeth; and no one had found the answer ever since. But Nelyafinwë felt that he was drawing near to the solution.

_The Enemy is within me._

His fingers slid to the neck-line of his tunic and touched his pale skin. He felt his own heart beating under the cloth.

_He is inside! He reads my thoughts and he rules them! He's driving me into my own doom! I am an Orc – no, worse, an Elf-like thrall of the Enemy! I am a weapon, a tool, a wretched... something!_

He fought for air.

_I have to die. I must die. I am wrong. I am soiled. I am dangerous_...

The world reeled wildly around him. He reached for his dagger -

"Maitimo!"

The door sprang open and his brother slid in, swift as a shadow.

_"No!" _Nelyafinwë hissed. He wanted to scream, but walls had ears in the Himring... "Go away, leave me, leave me, you mustn't..."

_I am dangerous,_ he wanted to tell him but Makalaurë kept approaching him stubbornly and sat on his bedside.

"You've been missing meals for three days now – don't think I haven't noticed!"

Nelyafinwë glimpsed that his brother was carrying a tray fraught with breakfast.

"You must keep your strength, Maitimo. Also, you must have a wash from time to time. You smell like..."

"...a corpse" Nelyafinwë muttered.

"That's not what I meant..."

Nelyafinwë ignored his protestation. "Makalaurë, I think..."

His brother reached for his hand.

"You think too much. You're terrified and unsettled, as you have every right to be. It is horrible to be forced to kill a friend... but you did the right thing. You saved the children – again."

"I plucked them out from the trouble I've put them in, more like," Nelyafinwë groaned but he felt strangely relieved for a moment.

"The result is the same this time," Makalaurë managed a thin smile, and as he caught his brother's glance, said smile grew wider. It was gentle and reassuring, and faint warmth started to creep up to Nelyafinwë's heart. The veils of madness rose before his eyes and het let out a deep sigh.

"Be strong!" Makalaurë said suddenly and his grip tightened around Nelyafinwë's wrist. "You can't give up now, not after all these years! We still have an Enemy to fight."

"Do you think he could be fought?"

"Think?! Maitimo, you've been fighting him all your life! You've defeated him together with Findekáno, and again with our allies! You've gained us lands, you gave us a new life here! You kept our people safe as you ever watched the borders of the Enemy! You were restless and unbreakable."

"Unbreakable?" Nelyafinwë wished he could laugh at that.

"Yes, Brother. And you still are. No matter what Morgoth does, he can't cow you. He can't bend your will. He cannot make you fear him. He cannot make an Orc of you. For him, you are the Enemy – and as long as you hold on, we shall stand by your side, our soldiers and I."

"Stop eulogizing me, little brother, or I might even believe you."

"You could listen to me for once," Makalaurë sighed, and after slight hesitation, he said, "A song just came to my mind. Do you want me to sing it?"

Nelyafinwë wanted nothing more, but once again, he had to swallow his _personal standpoint_.

"Soon" He stood, his fist clenching. "But first, I have something else to do."

"And what is it?"

Nelyafinwë eyed his brother. "Have you heard about Tyelcano and the starving watchmen?"

Makalaurë sighed sadly. "I have. Maitimo, I..."

"I will chase the rest of the Orcs and see if I can find any trail," Nelyafinwë declared and the next moment, he was on his way to the armory. He looked strong and determined, as if he was following carefully elaborated plans and not some headfirst obsession that just busted out from his head, but Makalaurë knew him well and followed him.

"But...," he objected "it's not the right time... Maitimo, it's almost winter!"

"They are starving NOW, brother. And little Elrond has no further need of my furcloak, I suppose."

That was the first time he said the child's name.

"Snow is coming...," Makalaurë asserted.

"Good. I have always loved snow. It's so clean, you know..."

"-but..."

"Call the captain, Brother! I'll be needing a few scouts. Three or four is best."

"Maitimo, I just wanted to say that I..."

"...you stay here with the children. You open the gates to nobody save me or my soldiers..."

"Maitimo, we're ruling this castle together!"

"...don't worry for me until the turning of the month. Search me after six weeks, or more. I'll be sending messengers."

"Could you just listen to me for a moment so I may say that I..."

"...and I'll hunt down another bear if I can so you may have a furcloak on your own..."

"Maitimo..._Nelyo_, are you listening to me?"

"...look after yourself, brother! And take care of the Orcs under beds. May the stars of Varda guard you while I'm away!"

"What?"

Nelyafinwë's heart filled with unexpected mirth as his future companions started to gather around them. He almost felt adventurous...

They were about to depart, when Makalaurë threw an angry glance at his brother.

"But Nelyo! What about my song?"

"Sing it for the children, Brother. I'll hear it another day. See you!"

.x.

Nelyafinwë left his castle before noon with four scouts by his side. They carried no flags and hit the road as if they were already pursuing their enemies.

_"I shall hold on, Brother," _he promised, _"I shall find my counsellor and bring him back, no matter what. I won't let him turn into an Orc and my watchers won't starve. I will not yield, you have my word on that! I will fight!"_

* * *

**Author's notes**

**Names:**

Maedhros = Russandol = Maitimo = Nelyafinwë (= Nelyo) (no, I'm not obsessed with his names. Not at the least).

Maglor = Makalaurë

Fingon = Findekáno

Feanor = Fëanáro (surprisingly)

**Phrases and mentioned historical events:**

-The fëa and hröa are the Quenya equivalents of _soul_ and _body_.

-The heap that Maedhros sees is called Haudh-En-Nirnaeth (Hill of Tears) or Haudh-En-Ndengin (Hill of the Slain). It is located in Ard-Galen (north Beleriand, between Angband and Dorthonion). Professor Tolkien mentions it in 'The Children of Húrin' and also in 'The Silmarillion'.

\- from this: "Nirnaeth" and the "unnumbered tears" of Maedhros refer to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (The Battle of the Unnumbered Tears) in which Fingon died and the Noldor suffered an utter defeat because of a treachery.

-"well-shaped one" and "foully-shaped one" are referring to the name "Maitimo" – the first one translates it, the second one mocks its meaning.

-the two defeats of Morgoth that Maglor talks about are 1: the escape of Maedhros from Morgoth's captivity and 2: the Dagor Aglareb (the Glorious Battle) after which the allied forces of Maedhros and Fingolfin (and Fingon) circled the walls of Angband. They set a watch there to prevent the Enemy of attacking and held him in check for nearly 400 years.

-The meaning of the name 'Tyelcano' can be determined as "Swift one" or "Agile one" but it may also signify "Swift/agile/competent leader". The translation depends on the placement of syllables with which I don't want to tire my readers.

-Antalossë means 'Snow-face' as I have already mentioned in the previous chapter.

**Own/original characters: **Tyelcano is my (second) most beloved Noldo. Hungarian readers may know him from my older stories.


	3. Chapter 3: The Bard

**The Bard**

The fifth string was mistuned, Makalaurë could hear it clearly – and still, it was strangely satisfying to abandon himself to imperfection. The string ringed a wee bit lower than usual, as if to mingle his music with the melancholic equanimity that clouded his heart. The soft bittersweet melody echoed on and on, from one rigid stone wall to another as if they were all singing in catch. They were the only choir Makalaurë could hope to have in the Himring.

The stars shone bright outside, draping the ink-black sky into a luminous maze of silver cobwebs. Makalaurë could not remember the last time he had the chance to observe the winter sky this clearly – there were no clouds to be seen and the moon was just a thin crescent. He was sitting on the epaulement of his balcony, legs outstretched, leaning to the wall with his back.

After all these years, Russandol would have still gone mad if he saw him like this, inches away from falling... but Makalaurë would have fancied to scare his brother now. He was so angry with him!

Russandol had promised to send him messengers, and so he did... _once_... with _one_ brief note in which he explained that he'd found an Orc trail and he was following it in secret with his scouts. He failed to mention where it was leading to, but Makalaurë had his suspicions. Since then, six weeks have passed - Russandol was nowhere and Makalaurë was getting anxious.

_He left me behind. I'm a burden to him, just as those two blameless children._

_-or even worse. He did not even bother to hear my song._

_And what are your songs for? You're nothing but a lone wolf howling at the moon; your voice dies away in the dead of night._

The lute quiesced in his hands as he glanced up to the wide skies; and at the same moment he heard a soft hissing gasp. As he turned around, he caught a quick glimpse of a child's face disappearing behind the frame of the door.

"Elrond? Is that you, little one?"

It was so like him to err in the castle in this late hour. His twin was merrier in daylight, Makalaurë had observed, while Elrond seemed occupied with his own thoughts. But as the sun went down and the stars lighted up, Elrond seemed to brisk while Elros was fast asleep.

The child's little figure appeared on the doorstep. "I wasn't doing anything wrong," he asserted. "I just wanted to hear a song."

"You've heard plenty of songs today."

"But just another one! Please!"

Makalaurë smiled. "One last song," he promised. "And then you'll go back to sleep."

The bard left the balcony and sat down next to the hearth, his heart filling with unexpected mirth as little Elrond settled down at his legs and he saw how vividly his eyes glimmered in the candle-light. It comforted Makalaurë to see that he could bring someone joy with his singing. But suddenly, he remembered the mistuned string. He had to repair it so the instrument may sound perfect...

"Makalaurë," little Elrond blurted out suddenly while the singer was pulling the strings tense, "where is Russandol?"

"I've already told you, little one. He went after the Orc horde that menaces our borders."

"And when will he come back?"

"No one can tell. Maybe he won't come back at all."

He never meant to say that. He could not even bring himself to imagine _that..._ but the words just came spilling out.

"He will," little Elrond whispered after a long while, utterly convinced. "I know he will."

Makalaurë looked at the child, wondering. Since his brother was away, he found himself spending more and more time with the twins (especially with Elrond). Slowly, the children learned not to fear him and they both liked listening to his soft sad voice. Soon, they would no longer go to sleep without his songs and tales, and they even seemed interested in learning the Old Tongue (though Makalaurë insisted on teaching them the New as well). Sometimes, Elros still acted wild or moody, but a couple of old maps were enough to fascinate little Elrond, who proved to be the swiftest learner of all time - but much less practical than his brother. Makalaurë had learned to tell them apart by their voice, by their moves, by the blink of their eye.

And, slowly, he started to cling to them, even though he knew he shouldn't.

.x.

.x.

.x.

Little Elrond could not remember falling asleep; the soft, bittersweet voice of Makalaurë was still echoing in his head while someone grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, then robbed him of his blankets. When he stirred he saw his twin towering above him, dressed, with a warm cloak on his shoulders – sleeplessly, for once.

_I could not rest for long,_ Elrond asserted to himself, than it occurred to him that Makalaurë must have carried him back to bed. It almost felt like the old times, when he still had parents.

"Elrond!" Elros hissed angrily, "Hurry! We'll miss the chance!"

"What chance?" he yawned. "I had a beautiful dream. Couldn't we just go back to sleep?"

"Sleep?" his twin eyed him sharply. "Lazy! We can't sleep now – we have to go!"

"Go?" Elrond felt the icy claws of fear digging into his stomach. "Now?"

"Now or never!"

Elrond noticed two fraught bundles waiting for them in the corner. Elros' plans were nothing if not well-founded, but suddenly he lost all his stoutness to leave.

"But we're not ready yet – we'll... even if we could hunt, we'll soon have nothing to drink!"

"Everything is covered in snow, stupid. We'll find nothing but _drink._ Come on before he sees us!"

"But the map -"

"What of the map?"

"It's still in _his _room," Elrond whispered, terrified.

Elros took a deep breath.

"I'll watch him," he declared. "Go and get the map, swift as a shadow! I'll meet you at the stables."

"What about the guards?"

"They were summoned into the castle. Something happened... But two of them still keep circling the walls, I was watching them!"

Elrond blinked. It was fascinating how Elros always had the mind to watch_ everything_.

"But... but they will see us walking past the gate! We can't ride through a closed gate!"

"I said I'll meet you at the stables. I did not say whether we were going ahorse."

"But -"

"No more objections!" his brother commanded. "Get the map!"

And he was gone.

.x.

.x.

The room was dark as always, and the warmth must have oozed by then through the large windows. Only a few embers glew at the bottom of the hearth and no more than a thin band of smoke was puffing up to the walls. Makalaurë was gone but the map still lay on the richly carved desk where they'd studied it together, just a few hours ago.

Elrond had showed deep interest towards the roads that ribboned all through Beleriand and listened with bated breath as Makalaurë told him of the whereabouts of Orc nests, fortresses, caves and the Enemy's strongholds. He could have drawn them by heart now; but still he felt that it was not enough. What if they run into soldiers? Orcs? A pack of wolves? The thralls of the Enemy?

_Another Antalossë?_

Anything could happen and they cannot fight; they could not even wield a sword if they had one. Without horses they could not flee, either. Soon, they would run out of provisions and then they would starve, just as the soldiers of Russandol...

_And what then?_

Elrond's thoughts only reached the terrible Unknown, never reflecting on death, but obscurity proved enough to scare him. Home, yes, he wanted to go home... _but what was home like, and where was it?_ He must have forgotten it somehow, somewhere on the road. Faintly, he remembered living another life but those days were gone and they felt like some colorful, swiftly fading dream.

There were no Orcs in those dreams, no swords, no castles, no soldiers and no darkness - not even the chill of the night or that agonizing hunger he remembered feeling on the road. Soon, he would feel it again; and this time, Russandol won't be there to hunt for them. Neither will Makalaurë, singing him songs and telling him tales, chasing the monsters of the night away...

Now that he and his brother arrived at the very point of acting, all their carefully elaborated escape-plans seemed no more consistent than a house of cards.

_(Little Elrond could never build one, Elros even less)._

Was it a losing game from the beginning? Was it all in vain?

_Was it?_

With Russandol gone, the children's courage stirred and they were working on their escape since the very hour they saw him depart. It was difficult at the start, and as the weeks passed it just got more and more complicated. Night and day, the fortress was guarded by watchful eyes and sharp ears and they could not hope to flee, not with Makalaurë tending them so carefully. But slowly and attendingly, the plan was elaborated and finished. Elros and Elrond were waiting for the opportunity ever since...

...and now that it has come, Elrond found himself unwilling.

Apart from Elros, Makalaurë was the only one to care for him; and unlike his twin, he was able to comfort him. Elrond could hide behind his cloak when he was afraid, he could listen to his songs when he could not sleep, he could hear his tales when he was bored. And Makalaurë could teach him strange things, interesting things like letters, numbers, arts or the lore of forgotten days. And sometimes - when he was in an exceptionally good mood -, he let little Elrond play with the strings of his harp.

Little Elrond was utterly convinced that no one else had a harp in this wide world.

.x.

.x.

Somehow, he got the map.

_Go and get it, swift as a shadow!_

Elros was waiting for him at the stables - and Elros was not particularly renowned of his forbearance. If he would not arrive in time, maybe he'd leave him and go alone; and if Elros left him, that would mean the end of the world.

The map was crumpling slowly in his hands as his frozen little fingers kept squeezing it. He was so afraid he wanted to cry. He saw the guards here, there, everywhere – but no one caught his eye, no one called after him, no one noticed him. No one cared. _No one believed he could climb those walls._ There was something far more important happening in the castle.

Elrond's tears washed down the thin scroll of parchment and the ink began to blur.

_No! No. We won't find our way home!_

_No, we won't. We have no home._

He hid his hand behind his back all the same and wiped away his tears. Elros was waiting at the stables, and he was getting late.

.x.

.x.

.x.

"A letter from your brother, my lord" the scout announced and he bowed. "Good news it brings to you, I must say. All Orcs were chased from our lands, the borders are being fortified. Our soldiers have enough food, drink and blanketing for the winter. The Lord Maedhros succeeded splendidly if I may mention – the Orcs fled in horror as they caught the first glimpse of him."

"My brother is the Enemy of the Enemy," Makalaurë smiled pridefully. "Of course they did."

Gentle waves of relief flooded through his heart, knowing that his brother survived.

_Little Elrond was right – he is coming back._

He broke the seal and read the letter, savouring every word of it, for they were words of victory; in spite of being written in the rather fact-finder style of Maedhros.

_Orcs beaten down to the ground, borders fortified, the watch replaced. More snow is coming, or so some claim. HEAT THE CASTLE. Nelyo._

The bottom of the parchment was folded back and when Makalaurë smoothed it out he noticed one last sentence, written down quickly, almost negligently, as if in secret:

_I can't wait to hear your song._

The singer's smile was faint but it came from the depths of his heart.

_You may hear it, Brother, you may hear it soon._

.x.

.x.

It was dark behind the stables and everything seemed meancingly silent. A thick white blanket covered the whole world and Elrond's footsteps craunched stridently in the snow, or so he thought. Every now and then the horses snorted, they whinnied or they began to paw the ground, but apart from them, nothing moved and no sound was to be heard – only the wind. It howled from the north and Elrond knew it would bring even more ice and snow.

"At last," his twin's voice called after him from the darkness of a warehouse. "I thought you would never come! Do you have the map?"

"I do," Elrond whispered. "But... Elros, are you sure..."

"Shh, silent! Come and look what I have found!"

Elrond caught the wrist of his twin, letting the darkness of the room swallow the pair of them. Elros pulled him into the store – they ran past sacks and boxes and shelves and barrels –, then led him out through the backdoor, where three fully packed carts were waiting with horses hitched in front of them.

"We're not going to freeze of starve!" Elros declared with gleaming eyes. "Here, we'll have more than enough food and drink and we'll stay warm amongst the package. All we have to do is remain silent!"

Elrond studied the carts in distrust.

"But where are they going to?"

"I don't know. Why does it matter? We no longer have a home."

"No, we haven't," Elrond tried to swallow the thought, for he knew his twin would get angry but the words just came spilling out "...but maybe we could have it here!"

"Never," Elros's eyes narrowed. "Never here! Never with _them!_ They burned our home and killed our friends! And Mother! Have you forgotten...?"

Elrond stared at his twin with wide eyes.

"...do you remember?"

"I do!" Elros seemed to be at the edge of tears. "Of course I do! I will always do!"

"Then tell me," Elrond whispered. "Tell me how it happened!"

_Silence._

It hurt him so much.

It would have been better, much better if his twin had screamed the truth right into his face – if he had screamed it all into the night so the whole world could hear it: what happened, when, where and why... but Elrond heard nothing but silence. Absolute, stifling, painful silence.

"We must not forget," Elros whispered. "They did it! They did! Both of them did! Even Makalaurë!"

Yes, it was true. _It had to be true. _Makalaurë was part of it – good, gentle, sweet, sad Makalaurë. It was wrong that he, Elrond was getting close to him. He was just as evil as Russandol – Russandol, who saved him from the Orc, terrible Russandol who left his warm cloak on him to ease the deadly chill of the night -, he was wrong, they both were wrong.

They had to take the chance and leave – to where? It did not matter.

Nothing mattered.

.x.

.x.

.x.

For the first time in weeks, Makalaurë watched as the sun rose to the sky - and disappeared soon enough behind a thick wall of greyish clouds, so the view from his balcony began to remind him of a festering wound. He sighed softly and shook his head, then went on his way to wake the twins.

_Elros will be dressed already, _he supposed, _but it will prove a tale of woes to get Elrond on his feet! He must learn how to rise at the proper time, though – sleeping until noon, or sometimes eve, that is no way to live!_

Forgetting himself, Makalaurë began to hum a sweet melody as he left the doorstep, descended the stairs and walked past the corridor. Softly, he knocked on the door and when no one bothered to answer him, he entered with a sigh.

_"Echuio,_ little ones! The Sun is on its way up to the skies, though you may not see it yet. Come swiftly, I have news to tell! Wake, little children, I..."

The singer's eyes widened.

"Elrond? Elros? Where are you?"

But the room was silent and empty, the windows closed, the table at its place, the chairs in order as they should be. And still - something else was missing, apart from the children.

_The blankets! Yesterday, the bed was still full of blankets. Where could they be?_

_They were both sleepless, maybe, and got tired of it so they woke up? They should have gone to search me, they know I'm always glad to sing them songs...they should have called for me! But where on Arda could they be now?_

There was a wardrobe standing in the corner of the room, its doors half open, and Makalaurë gasped, suddenly filled with a terrible suspicion which grew into certitude, as he saw that the wardrobe was empty.

_They were gone._

.x.

.x.

The guards heard nothing and saw nothing. No horses were missing, no trail was found. Nothing had been stolen from the warehouse, the walls of the castle were thick and high, the snow untouched at all places where a child could have begun to climb. (And even if they began, they could have never reached the top). The whole castle was searched but the guards found no one, nor did Makalaurë himself.

The sun was already going down by the time he noticed that his map was missing; the darkness had already deepened by the time he found out what was the only possible way to escape from the castle. The twins were careful and clever, he had to admit that – far too clever for their age.

_The war did this to them; war and all the dangers of the road._

_And us – Nelyo and I._

_It's a pity that they're heading straight in the arms of my brother, with the last provisions I could send to him. They would learn soon enough that the Himring could not be escaped so easily._

_But if they are so clever, _Makalaurë's thoughts echoed on, _they could have also guessed where the carts were going. What if they leave them on the road? What if they hit the woodlands and they freeze, what if they're waylaid by Orcs, wolves or even worse? What if they die?_

_That won't be your fault, nor that of your brother, _he reminded himself. _You have no reason to hold them captive, they can go on their way if that is their wish. If they wish to die, so be it!_

_I was good to them. I sang them songs and told them tales. I thought they were growing fond of me. I thought little Elrond was interested in my maps and knowledge, I thought he loved learning from me... And they both were only using me up._

_No, that's not possible by any means. They are just children, small children, they are not yet capable of such. They are just afraid, they cannot trust me after all I have done, they want to go home..._

_But they no longer have a home - why would they search it? Have they forgotten...?_

_No, Makalaurë, they surely have not forgotten you and Nelyo burning their house, chasing their loved ones and their mother to death. Don't expect them to forget THAT._

_But they have nowhere to go! This is insane!_

_Searching for a home that's no longer there – willing to fight with a hand that's no longer there – singing of deeds long gone that no one still remembers; are they not the same?_

And that was when the tears came.

* * *

_Echuio_ – Wake up! / Awake! [Sindarin here]


	4. Chapter 4: The Guardian

**The Guardian**

The storm was raging.

Cold northern wind howled among the naked trees, their limbs clattering like rusty fetters and Nelyafinwë could almost feel them clogging around his wrist. But he did not flinch. He held himself from moving, shuddering only on the inside. It felt like letting the breeze of the winter night enter the depths of his fëa, but that did not scare him anymore – it was no more than an illusion. His cloak proved warm enough, after all: if its previous owner – a mountain bear – did not freeze in it, nor would he.

"My lord!" he heard a scout calling after him, his voice echoing from one black bole to another, splintering off the sheet-ice beneath his frozen knees. _"My lord, where are you?"_

Nelyafinwë jumped to his feet, a lonely flame flickering in a field of snow. He had to go, they were already looking for him.

He'd hoped he could spend some time in the quiet woods seeking a trail that was impossible to be found. Or maybe he could just stay alone for a few hours to face his grief - once more -, to accept failure – again -, and let another friend go.

_Never!_

He got his time. He looked for trails and did not find any, he faced his grief and broke down, then accepted defeat – again. This was not the first (and probably not the last) time he had to give up and bow to failure; he knew the feeling well but now that it stroke for the thousandth time the pain in his fëa seemed to become unbearable. He could still not grow accustomed to the dull pressure of helplessness – every time the freezing waves of despair washed over him, it felt like another knife in the guts. For the first time within centuries, he almost wished to seek peace in the Hall of Mandos - where no grift was awaiting him - but something had once more woken in his fëa, something desperate and self-willed that refused to let the memory of Tyelcano go. It was some hidden power that restrained him all his life from poring over his agonizing self.

And then, all of a sudden, he saw it, and there was no turning back. There was a thin trail winding in the snow and threw himself onto it like a hound picking up a scent. Three maddening hours he'd spent in a flickering sea of snow, chasing nothing. By the time he came back his hand was freezing and his maimed right arm began to itch uneasily.

"Come here" he called, not recognising his own voice. "Do not fear the ice, it's thicker than it seems. Do you see something?"

"It's hopeless, my lord," the scout said softly, emerging from the darkness of the woods. "I am sorry."

"I know it is. Now answer my question: _do you see something?"_

"Footprints," came the grudging admission. "They're leading south."

"South-east as the Eagles fly. I've been following them."

"You should have warned us!" the young Elf exclaimed, forgetting himself. _"...my lord,"_ he added in haste, noticing the look on Nelyafinwë's pale face.

"You'd be wise to avoid the word _should_ in my presence."

"Yes, lord," the scout said quickly. "And where was the trail leading to, if I may ask?"

"Nowhere. Paths lead nowhere these days." Nelyafinwë laughed without even a sparkle of happiness in his voice. "Let's hurry now, I must see my captain."

.x.

They were walking side by side, the strong and the tall, the whole and the broken, the humble and the mighty, the scout and the lord. The forest was thinning around them, but darkness grew deeper as the moon sunk deep behind the thick, snow-filled clouds. Frost covered their hair and their brows and it was melting slowly; melting into the black like tiny stars swallowed by darkness and melting into the red like drops of wax consumed by wildfire.

And the storm was raging.

.x.

"Alive?" Nelyafinwë asked the healer.

"Yes, my lord."

"Conscious?"

"No, my lord, and probably for the best. His wounds are severe. Even if he stirred, he could not bear the pain."

"Can you do nothing to ease it?"

"The deeper he sleeps, the less he suffers."

"And if he dies in his sleep?" Nelyafinwë snapped.

"I cannot prevent that, my lord. Nor could I if he was awake. Keep the pain away from him: that is all I can do."

"Do you allow me to see him?"

The ghost of a smile rushed through the healer's face. "_Do you allow me"_ was a phrase that Nelyafinwë oft used, accompanied by a dangerous gleam in his eyes that implied "_Not that you have a choice."_ But now the gleam was nowhere, the lord's eyes empty like two greyish black pools.

"You allow it to yourself, my lord, if I may assume. Come, if that is indeed your wish but don't try to wake him, I beg you!"

Nelyafinwë had no answer for him. He didn't want to make a promise and break it right away.

Of course he would wake him; he would call him, shout right into his ear, grab his shoulders and shake him so hard his bones would clatter.

The healers were skilled for certain, but they knew nothing of this. His friend had to wake _and see _what he has become. He had to decide if he wanted to stay strong – and _he,_ Nelyafinwë had to know if he was a thrall of Morgoth now, or still his faithful Tyelcano.

One of the scouts had found his counsellor three days ago, haggard and insensible, half-frozen in the middle of the Orc nest they'd ravaged. Ropes were tied everywhere around his body, his mouth gagged, his limbs withered, his skin covered in festered wounds. Everyone was convinced he would die before the morrow – everyone save Nelyafinwë, who did not allow himself to consider such possibilities.

_Not yet._

.x.

The largest of the guardians' fortress had been partly demolished by the armies of Morgoth during the Dagor Bragollach; but this castle was located far south from the Himring, its walls high and defensible, its towers filled with seasoned warriors. Nelyafinwë still remembered how it stood in the days of its glory, stern and robust, an island emerging from the smoking ruins of the lands they'd once called _home_. The castle's western wing still stood thick and firm with a roof, some stables and a half-dried well, embraced by an usable bastion. It could still stay an army - and most of all, it could still be heated.

"If this could be called _heating,_ anyways," Nelyafinwë sighed softly to himself as he entered the once-so-mighty hall. He could see his breath flying off his lips like a puff of smoke which filled him with unease.

_It's much too cold in here to cure his disease. The whole world is freezing – is this some bloody curse of Morgoth or no more than my usual luck?_

Tyelcano – or at least, what could be seen of him – was lying unconsiously on an old, ragged mockery of a bed. Nelyafinwë could see deep cracks in its frames, made of dry pinewood, he guessed. His counsellor had been carefully wrapped in blankets and a set of bondages and a cup of chilled tea was placed on his bedside. In every hour a healer was sent to take care of him, or so the guards claimed.

_Not enough,_ Nelyafinwë stated for himself. _He needs unceasing care and warmth. A real bed to stay in. I have to get him in the Himring. But how, if I still have my soldiers to care for and those stupid children to protect? I cannot risk another..._

_Another Antalossë._

This, at least, seemed perfectly clear to him. More often than not, he needed to be stern and unmoving in his decisions. He could not choose to protect Tyelcano if that meant to risk another lives: lives he was responsible for in the first place. It pained him to see the wise Elf like this – the one to teach him the art of swordfighting when he'd been still a child, the one who'd taught him once more when he'd lost a hand -, but he had no choice.

Hesitantly, he placed a hand on the top of the blankets and let out a relieved sigh when he felt them moving. Tyelcano was breathing normally, even if his pale face suggested he was rather dead or dying. Nelyafinwë lifted one blanket, then another, then he moved closer to the sleeping Elf, trying to block the freeze of winter night which stole into the piece through the cracks in the walls.

Suddenly, the wind began to howl outside and there was a change in Tyelcano's breathing. Nelyafinwë placed his left on the Elf's shoulder, his other hand getting ready to fold the blankets back – then, for the thousandth time in his life, he realised he had no other hand and thus he swallowed his dismay and decided to get what he wanted as quickly as he could.

"Tyelcano," he murmured, gently shaking the Elf's shoulder. "Come on, my friend, wake!"

Shame rushed through his heart as he remembered the words of the healer.

_Don't try to wake him, lord, I beg you!_

_But he must wake, he must see what he has become..._

_I cannot risk another life..._

_My brother! I cannot risk the life of my brother... I still have a song to hear..._

"Tyelcano, wake!" he groaned.

The painful scream of the wind shook the whole building and a long crack in the wall, which Nelyafinwë had particularly disliked from the beginning, seemed suddenly to deepen.

"Tyelco," Nelyafinwë whispered, suddenly filled with horror.

No, it cannot happen, it _must not_ happen, what would he do then? Where would he run?

Another scream of the wind, another deepening _crack_. There was a moment of sullen silence, then half of the room gave way and collapsed. Clouds of dust rose to the sky like the smoke of some hidden fire; in some hideous way it was a breathtakingly beautiful sight.

"Valar help us all," Nelyafinwë muttered. He himself remained untouched, just as Tyelcano and the bed he was lying in. The rear wall of the bastion still stood high and proud. What warmth the old walls had held flew off in a couple of minutes but some embers still glew around them, and most of all, they were alive.

Nelyafinwë heard a shout coming from what had once been the dining hall of the castle and he knew the guards were on their way. Gently, he folded back a wandering strand of hair behind Tyelcano's ear. To his utter surprise, the Elf's features suddenly moved and softly, he gasped, then began to cough. Half the building could collapse around him and he paid no mind – what finally woke him was Nelyafinwë's sword-hardened touch on his face.

Two mysteriously gleaming grey eyes opened.

"Nelyo," the older Elf breathed in a croaked voice, "what are you doing, my little prince?"

It has been quite a while since Nelyafinwë had been last called _little,_ or even a prince. Suddenly, the ice on his stern, lordly face seemed to melt and he laughed softly.

"How did you know me? It's been a long time and you're not even looking."

"It's your hand, Nelyo. I know your hand since you've been a child."

That hurt Nelyafinwë.

"You're lost in time, friend" he said. "Come and sit. We cannot stay here and freeze to death."

Tyelcano obeyed slowly; he gathered what little force he could find in his freezing body and sat, shivering, clasping his blankets. By the time he finally settled in his new position his face was even more pale than before, his eyes deep and hollow, his gaze blank and sullen.

"You've come too late, my prince" he finally whispered. "I cannot be spared. I cannot even stand."

"I'm not asking you to stand yet," Nelyafinwë said. "But I _am_ asking you to stop calling me a prince. You may have forgotten but I'm no longer holding that title."

"All I remember is darkness and Orcs and winter", Tyelcano said, slowly shaking his head. "And the King, my lord Nelyo, where is the King?"

"Depends, which one," Nelyafinwë laughed without joy. "Most of them are dead, I must tell. Now, Tyelco, do you remember _this?_ Do you?"

With that, he raised his maimed hand and ripped off the bondages he always wore underneath his clothes; like this, the great white scars on his right underarm never showed to the eye of strangers. (Or anyone else's).

For a second, Tyelcano stared at him in horror; then there was a sudden recognition in his eyes. Nelyafinwë could almost see his memories flashing back in his mind.

"My lord Nelyo!" Tyelcano called, now aloud. He finally seemed to be back in the present."When did you... And why... and what for... and how did you find me?"

"Unfortunately, it wasn't me" Nelyafinwë smiled wearily and pulled up the blankets to the noldo's neck. "But I came as soon as I could. Everyone else was afraid you might rise as an Orc after the amount of torment you've suffered but I've never doubted you."

"How kind of you," Tyelcano coughed. "How long I've been asleep?"

"A couple of days. Or weeks? Far too long, that is all I can tell for certain. We don't have much time. We're going to freeze, my brother is weary and I need your counsel."

"Your brother" Tyelcano sighed. "Which one?"

"Makalaurë. We're the only ones left. The Gap was taken then burned down and left behind by our enemies and now that it's empty, we haven't got enough soldiers to fill it. What little force remains is gathered within the walls of the Himring. I'm sending scouts to take care of the lands of Himlad and we're trying to set a watch over the roads every now and then but we don't have the numbers to make this permanent. And now in this raving winter I want my people to stay within my walls. Even a Balrog would freeze in this weather."

"Wise words from a wise lord," Tyelcano said thoughtfully. "You were already grown up when we last departed but you're growing still."

"And so grows the shadow that veils my heart," that was all Nelyafinwë could manage. He felt worthless of such praise.

"That cannot be prevented," the Elf smiled at him wearily. "The shadow is within you. If you cannot chase it away, no one ever will."

.x.

.x.

"We're returning to the Himring," Nelyafinwë's voice boomed over the heads of shivering soldiers. The wind has not ceased since its unfortunate encounter with the bastion's front walls and the approaching host of thick snow-clouds seemed anything but promising. Fortunately, the Eastern road stayed usable and a guard glimpsed three carts less than an hour's walk from their partly demolished camp. Makalaurë's provisions were swiftly approaching and this lifted Nelyafinwë's spirits a little.

_We could eat and drink a sip, warm ourselves up then depart. We could go home! And Tyelcano would not need to ride, he could settle in one of the carts. Valar bless my brother!_

His thoughts turned to Makalaurë, gentle Makalaurë whom he loved dearly, though at times, he hid his devotion deep in his shattered heart. He felt a sudden longing to his brother, the only friend he had left in this wide world.

_Not the only one. Now there's Tyelcano, too._

_He should have always been there for me. I could have prevented a great number of fails by simply letting him aid me!_

But no one could change the past, not even Nelyafinwë. Humming one of Makalaurë's favorite songs under his breath, he left the remnants of the bastion hall to greet the newcomers, his eyes bright, his smile almost visible.

Later, he stated to himself that if only he could have known what he was about to find in the back of the last cart, he might had been much less pleased.


	5. Chapter 5: The Taleteller

**The Taleteller**

Elrond couldn't even feel his freezing little toes.

Time passed by, but there was nothing to do, nowhere to go. The cart went ever on, its wheels crunching softly in the deep snow; the horses hardly even changed speed, battling the strong Northern wind with unmatched persistance. Great while snowflakes were swirling in the frozen air - Elrond could sometimes see them as he peeked out to the wilderness through a fissure on the side wall of the cart.

Once or twice a day the horses slowed down then stopped, and a couple of torches were lit around them. The servants of Makalaurë gave the horses their daily share of forage and splitted the hours of the night's watch between themselves so they all could get some sleep; sometimes a campfire was also lit, they sat around it and ate together. One night the servants even started to sing about the glory of forgotten battles and noble heroes; and one of them almost noticed little Elrond who'd crept out from the cart to listen. He greatly missed good food, music, warmth and laughter - and most of all, he missed Makalaurë.

_We should have stayed _– he'd muttered to himself not so long ago when the last torch had burned itself out and darkness crept on the hidden forest road they were following; and thus the thought that had been haunting him for six days and seven nights of jolting amongst hardened boxes of food-storage had been finally put to word.

Now, in the middle of the night, afraid and half-frozen, Elrond could remember more than well the assault of Russandol and Makalaurë near the Sirion. He could remember the fire, the screams, the fight and the dead. He could remember Mother racing amonst the growing shadows of twilight with that strange shining jewel grasped in her hands, rushing past his pale face without even looking at him, or at Elros. And he could also remember both Russandol and Makalaurë slaying people they knew and loved. And he remembered them chasing Mother...

What happened later, he knew not.

He found himself thinking about the moment when Makalaurë first came to see him and Elros with dried blood on his hands. Elrond clearly recalled as he washed it away then paid no more heed to it. He remembered the silvery glint of Makalaurë's chain-mail, his shining sword, the fearless gleam in his eyes, his thin lips as they pressed hardly against each other. This expression made him look like someone stern and powerful.

And he remembered Russandol, too; his tall, dark silhouette a gaping hole in the light of torches, his whole garment coated with the blood of his enemies, the stump of his right hand carefully hidden, as always. Elrond almost heard his cold harsh voice again, his mind evocating Russandol's kingly glance, how it shook him to the bones, how it terrified him to death.

Russandol and Makalaurë were the monsters of his darkest nightmares and possibly his worst enemies (though Elrond has never had any enemies before); why did he feel a sudden longing for both of them? A longing for his own captors!

_This is not good, _Elrond stated to himself._ I mustn't trust Makalaurë. I mustn't. Russandol even less. They are both evil and frightening!_

But as he lay on his side, embracing his frozen little legs beneath the blankets Elros had stolen from the castle, his head and heart became filled with the sort of Makalaurë who sang him songs and told him tales every evening; and the sort of Russandol who came with a sword to chase his fears away then covered him with his own warm furcloak - and these thoughts left him in utter confusion.

_"Do you remember Russandol killing that Something?"_ called a little voice in Elrond's head. "_Do you remember how he broke his neck with bare hands?"_

_"-with one bare hand!"_

_But Russandol was only protecting us! Us and Makalaurë._

_"He yelled at you! He threatened you!"_

_Only beacuse he knew the Something might do us harm. He told me and Elros to stay in the tower and we did not obey. It was our fault._

_It was my fault in the first place._

Elrond closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort he needed to state such a thing blankly, without fear. In the past few days he'd been struggling with unalliable desires; he could not decide if he still wanted to chase those false dreams of escape, go back to the Himring and try to ask for Makalaurë's pardon or just simply lay down and weep. This inner battle proved extremely tiring, and the more attention he payed to it, the more energy he invested in it, the more horrible he felt and the stronger became his fears.

He did not know where the carts were heading to and for how long still. Every night he wept without a sound, rolled up tightly in his blankets. For the rest of the time, he forced himself not to think, not to hope or _feel_ anything and sometimes, it went easier than he could have ever guessed. More often than not, he found himself humming the melodies Makalaurë had taught him and savoured what little comfort they brought him. Instead of crying after Makalaurë he soon became willing to take the minstrel's peace and brightness as an example.

Only, he could not recall Makalaurë forcing quietude on himself with grinding teeth - while he, Elrond had to command every small muscle in his face not to move, to stay at place, to remain cold and grim. This stone-hard expression seemed nothing but a faint shadow of the desired and well-earned peace; faint, fragile and evanescent. It was nothing but a mask Elrond had pulled on to comfort his brother, and he knew this very well; nevertheless, he hoped that if he could manage to stay strong on the outside, Elros would never find out that deep in his heart he was gasping frantically for air.

Meanwhile, the cart was moving tenaciously on its way in a maze of dark pine trees and snow-drifts, taking little Elrond further and further from the place where he secretly wanted to return with every passing second and every heartbeat.

And Elrond did nothing. But slowly, he grew convinced that he_ should._

O = * = O

For hours, Elrond had been at the edge of dreaming; it took him a whole minute to perceive that something – or someone – was tugging at his blankets. The first touch had been gentle, no more than a passing wave of body-heat near his shoulders; then he gave a start as he felt the dry lips of his brother touching his ear.

"Elrond" Elros whispered hesitantly. "I think..."

His voice was cut down by a terrible, frantic howl that shook the whole cart around them. Two loaves of hardened waybread gave way and landed on Elros's head; the boy tossed them impatiently away and listened. When another howl broke the usual low noises of the night he trembled, then leaned to his brother. Elrond surprised himself with his own quiescence; usually it was the other way around, Elros being the one to reassure him.

"Don't have fear, brother" he whispered. "It's only the wind."

"Is it? You promise?" Elros shifted uncomfortably amongst the blankets that served them as a shelter. "It sounds like a whole pack of wolves."

"No. No wolves. Just the winds of Manwë."

"How can you be _so calm?_" Elros hissed angrily. "We've been hiding in here for a week, if not more! How comes you're not crying? How comes you're not afraid? You were the one who wanted to stay!"

He almost spit the words, as if they were poisonous. Elrond looked at his brother, wide-eyed, taken aback by the sudden fury that was seething in his voice.

"I would have never stayed behind without you" he answered hesitantly. "Where you go, I go, and if you don't want to listen to me I can't force you. It wouldn't help."

There was a long silence.

"We were not careful enough," Elros sighed. His voice was barely audible in the howling wind and the constant creaks that were coming from the way-worn cartwheels. "We should have chosen another way. This was a mistake. Now here we are, hungry, freezing and afraid. And we cannot hope to get out from the carts unnoticed. What if we get captured by Orcs? I think they might be even worse than Russandol, after all."

"Of course they _are,_" little Elrond, who – not so long ago – had still been entirely convinced that Russandol was the most hideous creature to ever set foot on Arda, including the Black Foe himself, let out a wary sigh. "Russandol would not kill us."

"I don't know, brother. Maybe he just hasn't felt like it yet. But Orcs would surely feel like it if they caught us, and very soon. And Russandol..."

Elros's voice trailed off.

"Elros..." Elrond whispered in a voice croaked from excitement as something dawned on him. "Do you remember... that strange shining stone... and Mother..."

"Would that I could forgot it all," Elros said, a tear running down on his pale face. He angrily wiped it off with the back of his palm.

"I think it was the jewel what Russandol wanted!" Elrond whispered as one would proudly declare, coming to the conclusion of years' thoughtful work.

"Of course it was the jewel what he wanted" Elros rolled his eyes. "And Makalaurë, too. Is it just now that you realize it?"

"No, of course not!" Elrond lied. "But if this is true... then I don't understand why Mother didn't give it to them."

"Because they are dangerous and evil, of course! They have no right to own it. That's why Mother kept it to herself."

"But Elros, don't you think..." Elrond whispered, then halted at the middle of the thought. "I've been wondering about this for a long time. Don't you think," he started again, trying to sound reassuring and believable, "that they brought us to their castle because they hoped Father and Mother would come to search us? With the jewel? And, maybe..."

"But they killed Mother!" tears welled in Elros's eyes. "She would not come!"

"You're right, she would not, but maybe... maybe Father would."

Elros considered the thought, then slowly nodded.

"Yes" he decided, "Father would come."

"But" Elrond objected, approaching to his aim carefully beyond measure, "if Father comes and we are not there..."

Elros's face darkened for a moment but a sudden gust of wind shook the whole cart around them and as a pile of boxes collapsed onto their heads the twins put aside every kind of strife and sought shelter in a dark corner, wrapped together in their frazzled blankets.

_"We cannot go back!"_ Elros whispered. "Not now, when we have already escaped," he added slowly, hesitantly. "They would both be _very_ angry with us. I don't really want to learn what Makalaurë is like in his wrath, either, but _Russandol,_ Elrond! I am horribly, _horribly_ afraid of Russandol!"

"Do you really think he hates us?" Elrond whispered, leaning closer to his twin. "Do you really think he wants to hurt us? Do you think he is really _that_ evil? He gave us food and shelter. He killed the Orc that was under my bed."

"It was only a rat," Elros reminded him.

"Yes, but if it had been an Orc, he would have killed it all the same. Russandol is strange and hard and scary, but he is not evil, Elros! He cannot be."

"He is so angry with us," Elros whispered. "Always."

Tears were rolling from his eyes.

"He _was,_ because we were bad."

The word seemed strange even to Elrond's own ears, but now that they had finally been uttered, they seemed truer than ever.

"Bad?" astonished, Elros eyed his twin.

"Yes, we were bad. We never did what we have been told. Don't you see this, brother? As soon as we are _good,_ Russandol and Makalaurë are also kind to us. And Makalaurë is so gentle, he is even good when we are not. And Russandol... Russandol is only _just._ When we are bad, he is also bad. When we are good, he is also good. It is as simple as that."

"But they surely deem it was really-really wrong to escape from the castle," Elros whispered, frightened. "Now they are going to avenge it."

"Maybe not," Elrond whispered back, "if we prove them that we are good and we go home."

_"Home?" _Elros seemed to struggle with the word.

"Yes, home. Whatever that means. Hoping that Father would find us."

"But we're completely lost. We're going the wrong way!" Elros said as the last objection he could raise.

"Next time when the carts stop, we shall speak to the servants and we shall ask them to take us... to take us home. Makalaurë has sent them away for some reason but after a time, they must return."

"But maybe the carts are going very-very far."

_Very-very far_ was a notion that Elrond found difficult to grasp.

"They probably do. But they can't go on like this for ever."

Elros couldn't oppose that. The twins huddled together under the blankets, their heart filled with a silent promise of mirth.

_They were going home._

O = * = O

After what seemed to be an eternity, the cart ground to a halt. Torches were once again lit outside, and Elrond could hear the horses snorting in relief.

"Where are we?" Elros jumped to his feet, following his brother who was already peering out from behind the canvas that served as the rear wall of the cart. "What do you see?"

"A dark forest, as always" Elrond said. "But we're now on a glade of some kind. And I see... I see the ruins of a tower. Snow everywhere. Many torches. Moving figures. They are so tall, they could be Elves... This is..."

"This has to be a camp," Elros decided. "Tell me what else do you see!"

"I see... yes, they are Elves. Soldiers. They... they wear a star on their chest. I think this might be... oh."

Elrond's voice suddenly trailed off.

"What is it?" Elros raised his brows. "Is something wrong?"

"I see... Elros, I see..."

But there was no more need for words.

"Empty two carts of the three," said a cold stern voice they both knew well. "We are all hungry! If you have a healer with you, let him step forward as well. What is more, every piece of bondage you are carrying is gravely needed, and so are the torches."

"Yes, lord," said a servant's voice fearfully close to them; and the next moment they saw the shadow of a hand on the other side of the canvas, grabbing it and pulling it away. The cloth slid off with a soft rustling sound and as the Elf stepped away, dim torchlight fell upon the frightened twins.

Elrond and Elros did not move; they stood there silent, wrapped in way-worn blankets, shivering from head to toes as the chill of the winter night crept under their clothes. Wordless, soundless, breathless they stood, eyes widened in fear and marvel, holding each other tight.

And there he was: terrible Russandol clothed in no more than a set of simple garments, riding boots and a thin black cloak, flame-red hair ribboning in every possible direction in the howling wind, the collar of his hauberk glittering with a dim light from under his clothes. Fearful Russandol with hard and tired eyes, holding another tall Elf by the shoulder: an Elf the twins have never seen before.

The stranger was sickly pale and probably wounded; he could hardly stand on his feet but he held himself with such strength he could find in his shattered body, his grip never loosening on his lord's arm. Russandol's bearskin cloak was wrapped about his shoulders but he was still shivering wildly in the winter night. Whereas Russandol's gaze wandered on the lonely forest road behind them, the stranger looked immediately upon the twins and a sparkle of interest lighted up in his fever-hazed eyes. Elrond did not dare to return his curious glance but the fact that the stranger was seemingly a friend of Russandol, and still he did not seem to be fearsome or furious was definitely reassuring.

The servant began to fold the canvas carefully and two more were coming to empty the cart; but all three of them at once halted as they spotted the twins.

"Valar help me!" one of them exclaimed. "Are these not the children Lord Makalaurë has taken to his protection? What on Arda are they doing here?"

_"What were you saying?" _Russandol turned abruptly back to the present, his voice filled with the kind of malice the twins already knew and feared.

"My lord, I..." the servant turned back to face Russandol. "We don't know how this is even possible. We haven't heard a sound all the way... this is..."

"Russandol!" Elrond cried, his voice even thinner and more childish than he remembered it to be. He jumped off the cart, followed by a trembling Elros. Quick little footsteps rushed through the virgin snow, then halted in fear in front of the red-haired Elf who did nothing, who said nothing, who was only looking at them with an indignance he did not even seem to be able to put to words.

Meanwhile, the mysterious wounded Elf was studying them with deep interest. Despite his visible illness, his eyes seemed only too alive. He threw a quick glance at Russandol who blinked a couple of times – as if to make sure Elros and Elrond were still there – then finally spoke up.

_"So?"_

This was all he said.

Elrond tried not to move, but the night was cold and with every passing second, he shivered more wildly.

"Planning an escape, are we?" a soldier called out from amongst the shadows. "That is not going to work, little lords."

"Silence," Russandol said, his voice barely a whisper. "Let them speak, if they wish to."

There was no more sound, apart from the wild howls of the wind and the usual snorts and other noises that were coming from the horses.

"Please... please take us back to Makalaurë!" Elros suddenly blurted out. "It's so cold out here! And there are Orcs in the woods."

They both expected Russandol to smile viciously and to say something like _"That did not seem to bother you when you'd planned your escape,"_ or _"That does not concern me anymore,"_ but nothing of the sort happened. The red-haired Elf was still standing at the same spot, motionless, his hard grey eyes fixed on their little faces. Elrond had first thought he was angry, but now as his sight grew accustomed to the light of the torches, he saw or thought he saw a sadness in Russandol's eyes that was deeper than the Sea. Making Russandol angry would have aroused fear in his heart, but making him sad suddenly seemed to be far worse.

"Russandol!" Elrond cried once again, and then, before he could even think through what he was doing, he pulled the ragged blanket down from his shoulders and trembling, he held it out towards the Elf. "You can't stand here like this. You are going to catch a cold!"

Silence fell on the camp once again. Everyone stared at him speechless: the servants, the soldiers, his twin brother, the wounded Elf, even Russandol himself. Even the howling of the wind quiesced for a while; somewhere in the ruinous stables on the Noldor's late fortress, a horse whinnied.

"Come on!" Elrond said stubbornly. "Makalaurë will not be happy if you fall sick."

He was far too little to brespread the blanket on the Elf's shoulders; all he could manage was to wrap it around his waist with a clumsy knot. Russandol was still like a stone, which was starting to seriously bother him.

"Russandol," said Elros suddenly behind his back, "please don't be angry. We promise we won't escape again. Will you please take us home?"

"Please?" Elrond joined to the choir of repentance. It suddenly seemed evident to him that they had been deeply, deeply mistaken by thinking they could escape, and - what was even more important - that they _should_ escape. Father was nowhere, Mother was nowhere, their friends were nowhere. They knew no one, _they had no one else _than Makalaurë. And Russandol.

The red-haired Elf seemed not to believe his ears as he looked at them, but as the wind started howling again and sent a drift of snow right in the middle of the forest road, he suddenly found his voice.

_"What possessed you?!"_ he exclaimed, his words clashing like steel on steel. "You could have been waylaid by Orcs! You could have been lost or captured, even killed! You are only small children! You – _how could you even manage to get out from my castle?!"_

"We did not check the carts again once they were filled, my lord," a servant said. "Lord Makalaurë commanded us to leave as swiftly as we could. We were only granted two halts a day. It could be easy to slid amongst the packages, and as I see, the little lords were cunning enough to hide right next to the food reserves."

Elrond tried his best to endure Russandol's searching glance but he could not hold eye contact for long; the piercing light in the Elf's eyes seemed not to be part of this blessed-and-cursed world and it somehow seemed to shine through him – to shine through clothes and skin and flesh, revealing his bare bones.

"Forgive me for an instant, Tyelco," Russandol finally said and he let go of the wounded Elf, then untied the knot around his waist and wrapped the blanket closely around Elrond's shoulders, kneeling in the snow. The child gave a start as the Elf's large sword-hardened hand touched him but he did not flee.

"There you go," Russandol said when the ragged cloth was tied tautly enough. "I will see that you both warm up a bit. I am in charge of deciding if I intend to catch a cold, but you two are definitely not allowed to. Let us not upset Makalaurë any further. I believe he already deeply regrets your assumed loss. Come with me now and do as I say."

Russandol's speech was filled with mazy words Elrond found difficult to grasp - as always - but he obeyed; Elros as well. The twins were holding hands as they followed the tall figure of Russandol towards the castle ruins, struggling in the deep snow. A few steps later each of them felt a large hand on their shoulder; the wounded Elf closed up with them to share the warmth of Russandol's bearskin cloak. His steps were slow and faltering for an Elf but at least Elrond did not have to run to keep his pace.

"I am Tyelcano," the Elf said. "Son of Ettelë*. For long-long years I've been by the side of the one you call Russandol, trying to give him good counsel because such was my duty; and now I shall return to him. But what about you? What are your names, little ones?"

Elrond looked up to him, wondering; then he let his twin speak first.

"Mine is Elros," his brother said hesitantly, "and my brother's is Elrond."

"And you are the sons of...?"

The Elf did not get an answer for that. Elrond looked at him with wary eyes, wondering what purpose might lie behind this question. Father was missing. Mother was dead. Why did it matter who they were?

_But Father might still return._

Elrond tried to remember the tall, graceful, golden-haired figure of Eärendil; his smile full of fondness, his clear laughter, his shining eyes, his large hands, the seashells he brought him home to play with... but as he closed his eyes to recall his father's face the image blurred through the veil of his unshed tears and Eärendil seemed to become a ghost, evanishing like puffs of smoke in the snowstorm. He saw Makalaurë instead, pacing back and forth in his room, deeply troubled because of their disappearance.

_And that was when the tears came._

O = * = O

The soft crackling of the flames filled Elrond's heart with some faint feeling of comfort. Elros and he lay on a shakedown, close to the small fire that was lit in one of the few rooms that still remained fit for habitation amongst the remnants of the late fortress. Russandol and the mysterious Tyelcano, Son of Ettelë did not even bother to use the ruinous hearth in the corner; the fire had been lit right in the middle of the room, in a dent delved by time. This was not dangerous, since the floor had been made of rammed earth and there was practically no furniture in the small chamber.

The children had previously received food and drink and now they were told to get some sleep, Russandol's bearskin cloak still spread on them. Two guards were standing outside the door; the twins could not have escaped even if they wanted, but this seemed not to bother them anymore.

Elros was fast asleep, but Elrond tossed and turned and tumbled, not even being able to close his eyes. The adventures of the past few days whirled endlessly in his head and he could not help but wonder if Makalaurë was indeed angry with them and if he wanted to see them ever again.

His entire body went still as stone when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"And now you know everything," Russandol said as he entered the room, and according to the blurred image on the edge of Elrond's vision he sat near the fire, warming his hand.

"It is not easy to catch one like me unawares," said a voice Elrond recognised as Tyelcano's, "but you make me wish I didn't."

"You are free to leave my service, if that is your wish," Russandol said quietly. "I understand. What is more, I _suggest_ it."

"As if I had a choice," Tyelcano's voice was weak, throaty.

"You do. You did not swear my Oath."

"No, not yours. I swore another one."

"You swore service to my family," Russandol said, "and you have served us well. I see no point in torturing you any further. I shall not command you to follow me to my next inevitable kinslaying. You are free."

Tyelcano let out a sigh that seemed to match the wind outside in strength.

"No, Lord Nelyo," he said softly, gently. "When you'd been rescued from the claws of Moringotto and I saw you... saw the state you were in... the wounds you'd suffered... I swore to myself I would never give up on you again. Never leave you again. I have no more than my own wits to protect you apart from the sword I'd laid at your feet together with mine own heart... and it is also true that my counsel is not by any means infallible. I can also be misleaded, misguided, I can be wrong... but I rarely am. Remember, Nelyo, I _did_ leave you once, because such was your command - and see what befell us. Then you'd sent me off for a second time and see what that did to _me._ I don't want to let you lose yourself again. You are a hero of forgotten ages, you are Fëanáro's son. You are the Enemy of Moringotto. There shall be no more kinslaying, I will look to that. I will stay by your side and help you as I can... even if I am deeply saddened by what these innocent children had to endure by your and your brothers' fault. And Valar, if they were the only ones!"

Russandol did not answer him; for what seemed like hours, the crackling of the flames was the only sound in the room. Breathing steadily, Elrond tossed himself around with his eyes closed as if he was only turning in his sleep; he stayed immobile for a couple of minutes, only then could he gather enough courage to open his eyes and spy on the two Elves.

Tyelcano must have left the room, for he was nowhere to be seen; but Russandol was still sitting next to the flames with a small stick in hand, setting it afire then sticking it into a hole in the ground so the flames went out; then he started it all over again. His gruesomely beautiful grey eyes seemed dim and hollow; and looking at his face, Elrond aghastly realised that it was –

_Valar, could it be wet?_

"Russandol!" he bursted out, loudly enough for his brother to wake.

"What happened?" Elros mumbled huffily, but Elrond did not bother to answer him; forgetting himself, he slid closer to Russandol and touched his chin. He could not believe that someone this tall, this brave and this frightening was capable of _crying!_

"Russandol, what troubles you?"

The Elf froze when the child's small hands cupped his face. A heartbeat later Elrond became aware of what he was doing and he wanted to back away but the long fingers of Russandol softly enlaced his own and the Elf placed Elrond's hands back to his lap with surprising care.

"Nothing," he said, quickly looking away. "Go and rest, little ones. Or do I have to tell you tales of terrible monsters to chase you back to sleep?"

But the twins were too young to tell the difference between taunt and an offer.

"Do you know as many tales as Makalaurë?" Elros's eyes kindled.

"Of course he does!" Elrond joined. "I'm sure he does! Please, Russandol, tell us a tale about a monster! A terrible one. Please!"

"It doesn't matter if it's scary," Elros agreed, "it just has to end well."

They huddled closer to the red-haired Elf near the fire, Elros on his left and Elrond on his right; and they were both looking at him expectantly. Russandol studied their zestful little faces, then slowly, he sighed.

"I'm not really good at telling tales -" he said as a final objection; but at the next – _please! -_ he yielded and reached out for his bearskin cloak to spread it on the three of them.

The tale Russandol told the twins was completely devoid of monsters at the beginning, but it included a Hound that was as large as a horse and it could speak with trees and birds and hills and rivers alike. The Hound was wandering endlessly – _just like we do,_ Elrond thought – but wherever he went, he sought peace and a place to rest. He wandered in forests, mountains, caves and wastelands but also set foot in all forgotten realms and cities of Beleriand. He spoke with lords and kings and heroes, and – yes – he fought monsters from time to time.

Whereas the songs and tales of Makalaurë had seemed to clear Elrond's mind and soul as if he were being nestled, flying him thousands of miles away from perception and reality, Russandol's tale was breathtakingly alive and believable. When the wind started howling again, Elros and Elrond clang close to him in shock, because they were convinced that the gracile black branches of the oak tree that stood in front of the window were, in reality, the loops of the terrible Valarauko's whip that the Hound was just about to fight. According to Russandol's tale, the Valarauko-s** were _flaming demons_ – Elrond could hardly even imagine that.

Never before had the twins heard a story this fascinating; and when the Hound had finally defeated all enemies and he found a rich and untouched valley with a green-green forest to dwell in for the rest of his years, Russandol found himself facing two little visages flushed with joy, wide-awake, begging him for another tale instead of sleeping peacefully.

O = * = O

* * *

**Author's notes**

#1 Calling himself a "Son of Ettelë" is actually Tyelcano's favorite joke. " Ettelë" in Quenya means "foreign lands" – it refers to the fact that Tyelcano was born before the Great Journey of the Elves and that the names of his parents are not known. (Actually, he made the Journey to Valinor as a child about as small as the twins in this story, following the camp of Finwë).

#2 The plural of Valarauko (which means 'balrog' in Quenya, in a literal translation: "Demon of Might") should correctly be Valaraukar – here it is said with an English plural because Elrond doesn't know the word and he has probably no idea what it means. /_ Thanks for kim-onka for the correct translation._

#3 Moringotto is a Quenya name for Morgoth (and, to be accurate, it is meant to be an injurious choice of name. Literally it means _'the Black Foe'_ but let us just consider how one swears in Quenya... for example, you can't say such a thing as _dimwit,_ you can only say _'not clever_'... If we think this through, naming someone a 'Black Foe' is quite offensive.)

#4 Of this line: _"I swore to myself I would never give up on you again. Never leave you again. I have no more than my own wits to protect you apart from the sword I'd laid at your feet together with mine own heart... "_ ... well, if any living soul dares to interpret this confession of pure loyalty as slash, I... I... Well, I cannot do anything against that. But it was not meant to imply such meaning - besides, a Nelyo/Tyelco relationship would not necessarily end well...

#5 Of the carts: I picture them not as medieval ones, more like the ones you can see in early western films, with side-walls and a cap, and a canvas to cover the rest.


	6. Chapter 6: The Dragon

**The Dragon**

_The storm was raging._

_Icy wind howled amongst black branches, intent and bitter, its sound like that of a pack of wolves against the soft crackle of the flames. The woodland itself was silent and dark; impossibly high, ancient trees bowed their bare heads in front of him as he entered the frith. The thicket opened before him as he went, an even path forming by itself. The earth was soft beneath him, his feet sinking airily in the wettish ground. A rich, strange smell flew in the air, a bit dour and a bit sour, fresh but at the same time frowsty, and so intense it made his head spin._

_Blood._

_"Maitimo!" He cried, and the torch quivered in his hand._

_But the woodlands were drear and dark and they held no answer for him._

_"Maitimo! We must go!"_

_Go, go, go, his words echoed from one bare black bole to another, his voice fading into the eerie choir._

_"Maitimo? Tyelko? Carnistir? Curvo? Brothers! Brothers! Where are you?"_

_"Pityo! Telvo! One of you! Where are you?"_

_"Kano! Kano," came back to him a distant voice, soft as the murmur of the wind, possibly no more than a dream._

_"Home, please, take me home, I'm so tired..."_

_Three more trepidant steps, and he fell. The woods disappeared, the wind howled no more; he was now kneeling in a sea of strange warm liquid that stank, sticked relentlessly beneath his fingernails and drank deep into his hair and skin._

_Flesh._

_Blood._

_He screamed, and his stomach rose. A sea, a sea was around him. His clothes were heavy, his hauberk havier, his long dark hair sodden with blood and tears. They sticked to him. He was not even strong enough to lift his arm. Waves of warm, dense liquid were overwhelming him, drowning him. And the smell, the sickening smell..._

_He screamed._

_He gasped._

_He gulped,_

_He submerged,_

_In the blood of his enemies._

_His head resurged, and he spat. Reckless, desperate, he clang to the heavenly sensation of air entering his lungs._

_"Maitimo!" He wuthered with renewed strength, and this time, he saw him. His brother was standing on the shore, wide-eyed, but he looked right through him, lantern in hand._

_"Maitimo! Save me!"_

_There was no answer, only the howling wind and the slow seething of the black blood-sea around him._

_He was drowning._

_"MAITIMO!"_

_There was a soft sound in the woods, no more than a crackle of branch under the hooves of a deer passing amongst the bushes. But his brother drew himself up and turned away, and disappeared in the woods._

_Two little faces - he knew. Maitimo was searching for two little faces amongst the death and ruin._

_And the blood around him was seething hot, burning him to the bone._

_And he screamed._

O = * = O

Makalaurë woke up to the sound of loud clattering when something that sounded to be an avalanche of rock crashed hard against the lattice on his balcony door. His nightrobe was drenched with cold sweat and he shivered, making a hesitant move with a slender hand, an unconscious attempt to shoo his nightmares off.

The noise sounded definitely real, though; and Makalaurë donned his cloak. He pulled the hood onto his head and proceeded first to unlock the door, then to push it lightly open, only to get knocked right in the chest by an overwhelming blast of wind. The paralysing sensation of cold expanded in his whole body, paining his arms and stiffening his fingers as he wrapped the cloak more tightly around himself and took three faltering steps ahead, towards the unknown object that had seemingly chose to land right in the middle of his balcony. Surrounded by slump scaps and small pieces of rock, it was something big and possibly very heavy; the wind must have crashed it straight against his door, but thanks to Maitimo - who had insisted to provide every single balcony door in the castle with lattices, as well as all windows on the first two stories -, Malakaurë did not have to welcome it in his bedroom.

Whether he was still shivering as an aftermath of his haunting dreams or it was just the freezing wind that shook him to the bone, he could not tell. Slowly, he stumbled closer to the mysterious object that was already half buried in the heavily falling snow. As Makalaurë knelt down beside it to have a closer look, he was alarmed to glimpse an open mouth gaping towards him, full of sharp teeth, then claws and scutes and wings.

_A dragon?_

He had to blink several times to apprehend what he was truly seeing.

_A gargoyle!_

Made of cloud-grey stone that shimmered like moonlight, the stone dragon gazed blankly at him with its elaborately carved gaze. Those blind eyes have seen much, and after all these years they still made Makalaurë venerate the crafty hands that have made them. There were only four of the same kind of gargoyle in the castle; and this one had been the last to leave its guard-post. Only, the three others had been carefully removed and incased to an interior wall of the castle so they could be preserved; this one, however, had been still used – and ere the coming of spring, it would also be gravely needed.

_Another thing that has gone amiss in the absence of my brother. Another thing that I shan't correct before he comes back._

"Tell me, Maitimo," he said aloud, his voice dissolving in the wind, "when shall I stop failing you?"

Makalaurë struggled to lift the dragon's head, to stash it back to his room, but the stone was reluctant to move. He digged his fingernails into the smooth carvings and lifted again, grinding his teeth. Nothing moved, but a blast of wind sent him flying against the door, and as his back crashed wildly and painfully against the iron lattice, a hot flame of wrath rose in his chest.

"I AM NOT STRONG!" Makalaurë screamed against the wind. "I AM NOT AN ACCURSED SOLDIER! I WAS NOT MADE FOR THIS! I WANT TO REST-"

Almost seething from fury, he grabbed the stone and pushed it with all his angered strength, pushed until his muscles hurt and his skin was scratched and hot blood flowed down his shoulders.

The large dragon-head slipped from his arms and swooshed through the snow-covered balcony, then hurtled right against the lattice. There was a loud _pang,_ then a _clang,_ then a _boom,_ then the sound of morcelling rock pelting onto a cover of fresh snow.

And thus only three gargoyles remained to commemorate those times when Makalaurë was still young and the castle was younger; and he sighed and sank into his exhausting thoughts.

O = * = O

"My lord?"

Makalaurë opened his eyes. He was still kneeling in the deepening snow, in no more than a thin cloak to protect him from the icy wind; and a guard was standing above him, his hand staying firmly on his shoulder, on his face an expression of deep concern.

"What is it?" he asked, raising a thin eyebrow. "Is something amiss?"

"I've heard you shouting, my lord. And there was a noise...," the guard's searching gaze wandered from the utterly smashed gargoyle to the heavily scratched lattice on the door, and back.

"The wind tore it down," Makalaurë gestured towards the pieces of rock.

"And then smashed it against your door, m'lord, if I interpret the situation well," the guard said.

"No, that was me. I was angered, and so I... oh Valar, I must have smashed it!" Makalaure sighed as he looked closer. "Maitimo will be furious when he returns."

"You...," the guard looked alarmed. "But Lord, it must have been extremely heavy! How could you..."

"I was angered," Makalaurë sighed. "I did not fully consider what I was doing. My heart feels weary."

"Come, lord," the guard said after a short silence, "let us return to your chambers. This cruel storm shows no interest in ceasing. If it continues like this, we might consider to reduce the number of heated pieces up to the second floor. Warmth flies out from there faster than the Eagles."

"Maitimo would not like that," Makalaurë shook his head. "Nevertheless, you speak the truth. To be fair, I sincerely doubt my brother would find joy in _anything_ that has happened here since he left. Is there still no sign of the carts returning?"

"Nay, my lord; but that means nothing. The weather could have easily delayed them. It is even possible that they have not even set out yet for the journey to return. The roads are very dangerous, and so shall they remain for at least three weeks after the storm."

"Three weeks," Makalaurë closed his eyes for a moment, and let the bars of the door close behind him with a _clang._

"Thank you for your vigilance," he said to the guard, "but I shan't be needing it from now on, until dawn – if indeed we shall see one. Watch only the inner walls, even the Enemy is helpless against a tempest like this. No attack shall come tonight."

"As you command," the guard said, and left after a quick bow; but he glanced back over his shoulders from afar, when he thought Makalaurë was not watching anymore.

_I scared him, _Makalaurë realized, and he glanced towards the door. The remainings of the stone dragon were still lying around on the other side, he knew.

_I scared myself as well. Am I just really nervous or am I going mad? Am I thinking too much?_

_Rest. I'd only need some rest..._

But true rest has been avoiding him for days; nightmares haunted his fëa whenever he closed his piercing grey eyes and he gave moans of distress as he slept; sometimes so loud that it would wake him. He'd never been screaming in his sleep before, though; nor did he ever dream of drowning. This dream was something new, something terribly recognizable, as if it had been constantly lurking at the back of his mind since centuries: an experience, horribly real, failing only to materialize – until now.

_Sleeping shall not help me now, _Makalaurë decided.

But he knew what would.

Slowly, tenderly, he took his favorite small harp and ran his fingers through the strings, playing, teasing, exploring. The instrument sounded clean and clear, fresh as the cool breeze of spring wind, rich as the taste of ripe apples, and it brought a shadow of shy, hesitant joy to his heart, which mingled instantaneously with a pang of distant sadness; and Makalaurë knew that a song was emerging from the depths of his fëa. Closing his eyes in pleasure, he sang, in a low sweet voice:

_'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,_

_To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,_

_For no man well of such a salve can speak,_

_That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace..._

An elegant, melodious chord ran down on the harp's spine, and Makalaurë tilted his head, listening inwardly to all those pressing thoughts burning his heart.

_Not good, _he thought. _This is not the beginning. Not even the end._

Reluctantly, his fingers began to pluck on the strings. The soft music mingled with the howls and screams of the raging storm outside, and Makalaurë found himself strangely relieved, as if a cold blade had been suddenly removed from an open wound in his chest. And he sang.

O = * = O

For the first time in days, Makalaurë searched for a slender ebony door at the end of the Western Wing of the castle, and walked in; he opened all three windows and let the winter-breeze rush through the confined air. He sat on the bed, placed his harp carefully next to him and buried his face in his cold hands. Afront him, the large wooden armoire was gaping just as emptily as before. The two small makeshift beds were flat, untouched.

_They are long gone, and never shall they return._

Makalaurë shook his head subtly, the exquisite line of his brows descending to a frown. Himself: he was still blaming himself. And what for?

Some days ago, he had come to the conclusion that the twins were gone for all. Under no circumstances could they have been able to survive the snowstorm that had been raving for a week straight. Makalaurë presumed that they had jumped off the carts as soon as they left the castle, in fear of being discovered. At first thought, the idea seemed far too cunning for a pair of frightened children, but Makalurë remembered the horrors Elros and Elrond have already survived, and that cleared his mind from all doubt.

_My work for them – if it could indeed be called such -, is done._

_I have tried to care for them; I have tried my best. But to give their parents back: such a thing is beyond my power. They are so young and vulnerable, so wild and at the same time afraid; they are only children. They should not have already seen so much of the world._

_Why not admit it? I chose my own good. I chose to surrender to my Oath, to chase my fate – all in vain, as I knew, as I have always known. The Silmarili will never be ours; we shall never get them back. Such is the doom we have laid upon ourselves, and we have laid it long ago. Everything we do, Maitimo and I, is in vain, and he knows this just as well as I; but no matter how many times must my brother fall, he gets back on his feet and goes on, the grip of his valor ever tightening on my heart._

_Why not say it? I chose my own good, and now I am pretending to hold that of these children in a higher esteem. I am constantly assuring my own self that I am right, my aim is good and I am telling myself with perseverance that they need me. Why would they?_

_But me, I truly need them. They keep me sane and whole, and now they are gone, my brother is gone and I'm struggling with the vile demons of self-hatred stuck in my head. And it is only now, only now that I realise I need them so. All these years, have I known myself so little?_

_And what if they come back? What if, against all odds, they come to love me? What fate shall that bring upon their little heads, when I shall break again under the weight of my Oath? They could not, they could not bear it. And they should not. No one should. Under no circumstances would this end well._

_I have no choice, but to let them go_.

O = * = O

When Makalaurë, Regent Lord of the Himring rose from his reverie, the radiation of pale golden sunlight that shone through the window made him blink in surprise. The storm has quieted, dawn has broke, the Sun was already high in the sky. Gazing out, he saw that the wide wastelands of Himlad were all deeply covered in snow.

And a thin line of homecoming riders was swiftly approaching from the West.

And a horn was blasted, and shouts came from the walls and towers.

_Maitimo has returned._

Makalaurë smiled from the depths of his heart. Slowly, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, allowing the gentle waves of joy and relief wash through his fëa and hröa. His brother, his now only brother has returned, sane and whole, and very soon he shall see his face and hold his hand.

And then shame and remorse hit him like a blow in the chest. What was he about to tell him?

_"Maitimo, what a pleasure! I am tremendously sorry about letting little Elros and Elrond go, I could not help it. Oh, and sorry for destroying your last precious piece of Curvo's architecture, a most unlucky accident. You have never liked the way that gargoyle frowned, have you?"_

_Clumsy and nervous._

_"Maitimo, I... I am terribly sorry. I am the most helpless and unlucky creature on Arda. All of my intentions were good, and yet without an exception they all have turned to disaster. The twins are lost to us, and it is my fault, my fault; I was not vigilant enough. I must have scared them off. I am sorry for involuntarily destroying everything you're trying to keep whole."_

_Pathetic. And I have not even mentioned the dragon yet._

_"Maitimo, I..."_

But the gates were already opened and the riders were storming in.

Makalaurë was out of time.

O = * = O

The Regent Lord of Himring was standing still, his legs sinking deep in the snow; its thick white cover reached up to his knees. Four guards surrounded his tall, lithe figure, lances in hand, their gazes fixed intently on the homecoming riders.

First came three scouts, one of them holding a ragged dark banner with the many-pointed star wrought with fibres of gleaming silver upon it; then three dozen of riders: his brother's remaining soldiers from the last watchtower of Himlad, which, according to Makalaurë's suspicions, must have recently fallen into ruins. And then came three very familiar carts, with horses trotting dutifully in front of them; and finally, last in line rode his beloved brother and another tall figure, clad in a thick black cloak so only his keen eyes showed.

And...

"Easy, child," Maitimo said with a smile, to a small figure that was sitting in front of him in the saddle. "Let your shoulders down, or every horse within a mile shall feel your unease."

"But he won't let me guide him," said a little voice, slightly annoyed. "He never does. He will only dance around, and bridle his head up."

"Try again," said Maitimo assertively. "It is not proper for the Lord of Himring to stumble in court like some miserable gimp. My dignity is now placed in your hands, little one."

The world reeled wildly around Makalaurë as he watched his brother show young Elrond for the thousandth time, how to hold a leading-rein. The other, veiled rider was trotting closer as well, with Elros placed in the saddle before him.

The children were back.

Little Elrond made another clumsy attempt to master Maitimo's great stallion, all in vain. The tall Elf then streched out his right leg and pinched it lightly but imperiously against the horse's ribs, implying that it would better obey – and the stallion moved at once.

"Never let his head down," Maitimo went on with his lesson, still not even granting as much as a glance for his brother. "Today, he shall find nothing to eat down there but he cannot think that you would let him graze at any moment while you're riding him. And don't pull him like a madman, either... hold his head lightly but sternly, always with ease but also with utter severeness, if need be. He must recognize that you're trying to control him for his own good. Have no fear to give him a fair pull if he's in one of his mischievous moods, that will not do harm."

Makalaurë watched so intensely the final round of Elrond's struggles with the stubborn horse that at first, he did not even bother to have a closer look on Nelyafinwë's companion who had closed up to the lord and who was now looking at him, wondering. It was the intensity of his gaze that made Makalaurë stir and look him in the eye, startling anew.

It was Tyelcano!

_Maitimo magically solved everything – again. And I am a pathetic mess._

His brother was looking at him now, a warm and gentle gleam in his eyes.

"Laurë," he said, "brother, I am so glad to see you again. How fare you?"

_Horribly! - _Makalaurë wanted to say, laughing, but the words never found their way to his throat. All he could do was stand there, stand in the middle of the gateway, stern and cold like a statue, his skin pale as moonlight, his eyes gleaming.

"By a most wondrous turn of events," his brother went on, apparently seeing his unease, "I have returned to you with more companions than I had left. I truly thank you for the provisions you sent me, they arrived at the moment of greatest need. And how wonderful! When we removed the canvas from the food reserves, we have found something you may have lost and missed."

Maitimo and Tyelcano jumped off their horses simultaneosuly, as if the scene had been previously planned, and each of them lifted a frightened twin from the saddle, placing them lightly on the ground in front of Makalaurë, who still stood motionless, as if frozen.

The children were both shivering in the fresh morning breeze, and Elrond was holding like grim death on Elros's cloak. They stared at him wide-eyed, unable to speak.

"It seemed to us," Tyelcano's calm, gentle voice cut in, "that they wished to speak with you."

This broke the silence.

"Makalaurë," Elros whispered, with tears welling in his eyes.

"We are so sorry," Elrond added.

"Please, don't be angry..."

"We meant no harm..."

"Please, forgive us! We will not escape again."

"It was so cold, and we were afraid..."

"And there were wolves!"

"And we thought that maybe if we came back you would be very angry and would not accept us..."

"...will you sing us songs again?"

Surrounded by guards and soldiers, Makalaurë could not allow himself to run to the children and embrace them as he wished. Nor was he sure that it would be welcome.

_"You!"_ He shook his head slowly, as he started to regain the ability to express his thoughts. "You frightened me! I was certain you have found your death in this mad storm! What were you even thinking, silly children?! Do you believe _now_ that Russandol and I intent to protect you...? What a chance, what a wonderful chance you had indeed to run straight into my brother and not into Orcs!"

"They might have been a little less frightened, then," Maitimo remarked.

"We believe that you won't do us harm," Elros said in a very low voice.

"We will never escape again," Elrond promised.

That was enough to Makalaurë.

"Very well," he stepped forth, not caring anymore about the eyes and ears around him. He knelt before the twins in the deep snow and with each hand he held a pale little face with bright grey eyes. "And I, Makalaurë son of Fëanáro promise that no harm shall ever come to you while you live in this castle. My sword shall protect you from any kind of malice and every enemy."

"As shall mine," said Maitimo, and suddenly he was standing right next to him, stern and proud, his eyes softening as they met the twins'. "Food and shelter I shall grant you as I would do to any of my close ones: this I promise from my heart. I will never lay hands upon you, nor will I ever dismiss you from my lands – thus spoke Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro and Lord of the Himring."

Makalaurë saw some kind of hesitant joy on the twins' little faces; they could not entirely understand what these promises meant but the first spark of trust and closeness has been lit between the four of them and the twins seemed a little less distant and frightened as before. Maitimo's soldiers stood tacitly around them, lost in the timeless moment; and finally, it was Makalaurë himself who spoke.

"And now," he said, not being able to hide his smile, "I suggest you all come inside. The hearth is laden, the torches are lit, tables are fraught in the Dining Hall; I would like to hear, Maitimo, how on Arda could you manage to find our dearest Counsellor. Tyelcano, my dear friend, how fare you? I am glad above all that you have returned."

"My wounds are healing," said the Elf with a modest smile. "Your lord brother saved my life and looked carefully after me until the worst was over. Of my disappearance, not much can be said; I've been waylaid and captured by Orcs, and that brought me little joy. Thankfully, they did not find out who I was, or else, I would have been dragged along to the throne of Moringotto."

"Never say that," Maitimo said. The soldiers were now dismissed, and they were walking slowly towards the Dining Hall. Makalaurë saw with surprise that Elros and Elrond were always in his brother's heels now, and they seemed much less afraid of him than before.

"And how fare you, little ones?" He turned to them. "You seem pale. Have you had enough rest? It must have been awful to sleep in those carts for more than a week!"

"It was a little boring at the beginning," Elrond admitted. "But then it was good."

"Russandol told us tales about the Hound that defeated the _Valarauko!_" Elros added enthusiastically.

"And about the bats and werewolves!"

"And about the Great Spider that wanted to eat Arda!"

"And about the dragon that had no legs and no wings and he wanted to steal them from the Eagles."

"The dragon was the best!"

"No, the bats and werewolves were the best, but you fell asleep and missed the most interesting part."

Makalaurë felt his eyebrows rise to impossible heights as he looked at his brother, who – Valar, was Nelyafinwë son of Fëanáro, Lord of the Himring, Warden of the East and Enemy of the Enemy actually _blushing?_

_"You told them tales?"_

"I am not good at it," Maitimo apologized, "but they would not sleep, and..."

"They were _the best_ tales!" Elros crossed his arms stubbornly.

"They were just as good as yours, Makalaurë," Elrond corrected at once.

"No! Makalaurë has the best songs and Russandol the best tales. It is just like that."

"Has he ever told you his tales, Makalaurë?" Elrond wanted to know.

"Maybe, when I was very little," he mused, "but it was so long ago I cannot remember."

"Then you should listen to them," Elros asserted. "They are so exciting!"

"And for which tale should I ask him first?" Makalaurë smiled at them.

"The bats and werewolves," Elrond said immediately.

"That's too dark," Elros shrugged. "Ask for the tale of the stone dragons!"

"The stone dragons?" A terrible suspicion rose in Makalaurë's guts which grew into certitude when his brother smiled proudly at the children.

"That tale is true. The stone dragons really exist, little ones, and they are here in this castle. Three of them inside – they are very old and wise dragons, you see, and they have been dismissed from their duty. But one of them still guards the walls."

The twins were beaming in excitement; the only thing that could restrain them from running off to see the dragon immediately was the hungry rumble in their stomach. The tables were richly loaded and orange firelight danced merrily in the hall; and they ate with ease, even smiled. Makalaurë watched them with amazement.

Not wanting to delay the inevitable, he leaned closer to his brother and Tyelcano at the end of the table and told them truthfully about the fate of the last gargoyle. Maitimo's reaction was nothing like he'd expected; his brother had to hide a grin behind his goblet.

"Your next tale, Lord Nelyo," Tyelcano said, "should include a bard of great valor who wrestled with a flaming dragon when poor harmless creature accidentally stepped on his harp."

_"Don't you dare!" _Makalaurë hissed, but this time, Maitimo's smile was visible.

"What a great idea, Counsellor! Your wisdom was much missed here."

Makalaurë shook his head silently, but he could not suppress a soft laughter, either, before silence stretched between them.

"What a strange thing it is," Maitimo suddenly spoke up, "that we sit here, at the middle of this merriment. And look at _them,_ brother, look at them as they eat and speak. They have no fear – and my heart is weary."

"It should not be," Makalaurë said.

"Do you think? These children will grow. They shall know better who we are, they shall have their own knowledge and judgements. Short is the time that is left to us to make them see the world the way we want to. You are not their father, Makalaurë, and nor am I. You shall never be – and nor shall I."

"They have no one," Makalaurë shook his head. "We are responsible... we must..."

"We are beyond responsibility, my sweet little brother, and you know that. You know, just as well as I, that this is madness. But do not misunderstand me, for me too, I am acting like an accursed fool telling them stories and rocking them to sleep every night. Me, the failed lord, the Kinslayer. Do you not see, how highly inappropriate this is? _Do you not see_ how awful is the lie we tell them with every smile, with every touch, with every reassuring word?"

"You promised to protect them, along with me," Makalaurë said in an icy tone.

"Yes, I did, accursed fool that I am! And have no doubt – I keep my promises." Maitimo laughed darkly. "But one day – and very soon – we both might regret that we did."

"What say you, Counsellor?" doubt filled Makalaurë's voice as he spoke.

"I say," Tyelcano said in a low voice, "that you would have regretted more if you harmed them. We all know that it is folly to justify an evil deed with another; but to me, it is just as wrong to believe that the path that your past deeds have laid before you could never be swerved. You both acted as your heart told you; you have listened to its demand, and now you are indeed responsible for what you've done. You have brought these children here, you have clothed them and nourished them, they escaped and yet they came back to you – you cannot abandon them now without finishing what you started."

"And what would that be?" Maitimo closed his eyes in exhaustion. "Raising possible future enemies?"

"If need be," Tyelcano raised a thin black eyebrow. "But seldom do the young turn against the ones who raised them well."

O = * = O

The sun was already setting by the time Maitimo and Makalaurë took the twins to a dragon-hunt around the castle, its fiery disk descending amongst steamy orange clouds. Very soon, they found three stone dragons in the inner side of the Northern Tower's walls, but – as Maitimo explained to the twins -, those dragons were unimaginably old, older than Time itself, and they were also very prideful, thus they restrained themselves from speaking with youngsters like Elros and Elrond, or even Maitimo himself; their duty was reduced to guarding the walls with their watchful eyes and scaring any enemy to death, should they ever dare to set foot in the Himring.

There was still one dragon in the castle, though, that might ease the twins' curiosity, but to visit her (Maitimo insisted that it was a female dragon), they needed to climb the tower and enter Makalaurë's chambers, because the dragon loved dearly to sit at the corner of the roof.

Makalaurë entered the room first, then he opened the slightly shattered balcony door and sneaked out onto the balcony, while his brother stayed in the room with the twins, and hushed them, listening intently to any sound he made. Makalaurë waited a minute in utter silence, then he gave a loud theatrical gasp, and ran back to the room.

"Maitimo!" He exclaimed, thrilled. "Maitimo, the dragon has gone!"

"What did you say?!" Maitimo's eyes widened, in them a mischievous gleam. "How is that possible?"

"She's always been very stubborn. She must have flown away! Come and see the marks her claws left in the rock!"

Makalaurë ran back to the balcony, followed by his brother and a pair of exhilarated twins. The setting sun painted their faces orange as they stood one by one behind the epaulement.

"Look," Maitimo pointed with his finger. "My brother was right. That was her guard-post – but she flew away."

Elros and Elrond gasped when they saw the neat stone pedestal at the edge of the wall, where roof met rock. There was a deep scratching in the middle, as if something huge had been uprooted from there.

"I shall miss her greatly," Makalaurë sighed.

"And so shall I," Maitimo gave a small nod.

"Where did she go, Russandol?" Elros asked, suddenly pensive.

"I do not know, little one. Maybe one day, she will return."

"Maybe one day," Makalaurë whispered. The sun disappeared under the horizon, and wind was rising from the West, an icy kiss upon their brows.

"Will you tell us a tale of her deeds, Russandol?" Elrond pleaded.

"Why not," Maitimo mused. "As it happens, I have one in mind..."

"...about the dragon and a bard." Makalaurë finished his brother's sentence with a sigh.

He deserved this.

Looking to the beaming children, however, he felt _this_ might even mean more than he'd ever deserved.

THE END

* * *

**Author's notes**

Makalaurë sings some lines of Shakespeare's 34th sonnet (one of my favorites). It is on my list to actually write a song for Makalaurë he can sing in one of my future stories, but this is just not that moment. I hope Shakespeare gives him justice. The full text:

_Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,_

_And make me travel forth without my cloak,_

_To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,_

_Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?_

_'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,_

_To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,_

_For no man well of such a salve can speak,_

_That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:_

_Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;_

_Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:_

_The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief_

_To him that bears the strong offence's cross. _

_Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,_

_And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds._

It might not fit perfectly into the context but for some reason I strongly associate it with the atmosphere of this chapter.

**So, it appears that this story has come to an end. Allow me to thank you for your follows, favorites and reviews, it really meant – and means – a lot. This story has helped me through a great crisis in my life (you probably also noticed this, since there was a one-year break in my continuity of publishing new chapters) and it will always stay important to me. I don't know if I'll ever write about Maedhros, Maglor and the twins together again; I avoid on purpose to try and publish a "full story", beginning to ending, about their life and relationships, to help possible further changes. Anyway, THANK YOU again, and I hope you enjoyed this little journey together with these characters.**


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